I talk to my parents every day. At least brief exchanges of voice notes, but I can’t imagine not being in contact with them daily. I haven’t seen them since 2019, when they came with my brother and his wife for a couple of weeks. I doubt they’ll ever be able to travel here again, given both the current immigration policies in the US and the economic situation in Venezuela. Also, my brother moved to Spain two years ago. And, well, they’re in their mid/eighties. I try not to think about those things too much, as you can imagine, but like all faces of reality, you don’t have to stare at it to have it remind you ever so often that it exists. But it also makes me think about certain things.

I think a lot about being my parent’s child. As I struggle to regain a footing in my life, I consider how my father has managed to go from the prosperous times when there were four cars at home, when we could visit Disney World at least once a year, to them having to make hours-long cues just to fill up a tank, and yet keep the lights on, thanks to careful financial planning. It certainly makes me wish I paid more attention when he was explaining money to me.

I think about the new generation of “nepo babies” taking Hollywood by storm. There’s lovely Maya Hawke, the daughter of Ethan Hawke and Uma Thurman, already a scene stealer on Stranger Things; or Jack Quaid, son of Dennis Quaid and Meg Ryan, with a knack for some really weird TV and movie roles; or Margaret Qualley, daughter of Andie MacDowell, who was the other half of the phenomena that was The Substance; and Ray Nicholson, who couldn’t deny he was Jack Nicholson’s son even if he tried. While they have certainly managed to have a good level of success on their own, they’re also very close to their parents (Maya and Ethan have even worked together in a movie about writer Flannery O’Connor).

Meanwhile, my dad chose numbers, I chose letters. I’m closer to my mom there, what with her being the daughter of a poet, but it’s my dad’s boisterous personality that I truly stole through the gene pool. Because, in the end, that’s the essence, isn’t it? That’s what you truly have to share with your parents. That, and quality time.

I think about how I can assuage their concerns about me. I hardly sleep, I am constantly broke, I never seem to have time for anything, and I am much more grumpy than I used to. I also used to be much more closed off, and not just to them, but to everyone. I just felt that my burden was mine and mine alone. I have learned not to do that, but I still struggle, because there’s not really much they can do other than offer words of comfort.

I think, then, about the times when a word of comfort was all it took. My mom would hug me and kiss me on the forehead, or my dad would hug me and pat me on the shoulder, and that was all it took for me to turn into Superman. But now I’m in my fifties. I feel their physical distance while their spiritual one is nonexistent. I feel that I carry them like a precious gemstone. I can invoke those hugs and pats and kisses and it feels like a cool breeze after I’ve walked ten miles on International Drive in July.

I think that, if you had a good relationship with your parents growing up, it’s always a good time to be grateful for that, considering the horror stories I’ve heard about some mothers and fathers.

I’m proud to be my Mom and Dad’s child. I know they’re proud of the person I’ve become.