Simple Minded Kids

Twenty five years ago, my father lay on the floor of his room at the Air Force Academy in Colorado. He scanned through the spectrum on the radio that he wasn't allowed to have for the first half of that year listening for the song that played over the credits of The Breakfast Club, trying to decide if he would forget about her.

He'd fallen in love. He'd given her a ring with the last of his money, but he wanted to fly. He was a brain surrounded by brains. She was something else somewhere else. She was a question mark. He was halfway through an exclamation point.

He chose her.

Tonight, I sit in my parents kitchen in Oregon. I scroll through my iPod that's very near death looking for the song that I listened to on repeat one year ago while packing to go home, trying to decide if I will take only what I need from them.

I'd fallen in love. I'd given promises in spirit, if not in word, but I want to be sure. I am a mystic, surrounded by mystics. They are sound evangelicals across the pacific. They are the exclamation point. I am on the curve of a question mark.

I am undecided.

I wonder if my father ever regretted his choice. Does he ever wonder what would have happened if he would have flown helicopters in the Gulf War? Does he wonder how high he could have climbed in the ranks? Does he wonder if he would have found someone else to marry? Had different kids? Made a little more money? A little less?

"I could have one or the other," he said tonight. I have said the same. Are these false dichotomies? Can I do both? What happens when you combine an exclamation point with a question mark? My dad didn't think to try, ergo sum.

Will I forget about them? Will I take only what I need from them? Will I ever regret this decision, or will I never look back?