He was not an actor but in my opinion deserved his ten minutes across from James Lipton on the Actor’s Studio.

Even though he spoke directly to me I’d felt like an eavesdropper listening, because he seemed an unabashed soliloquy.  Yet after listening more intently I’d decided my father was an aberrant walking monologue.

He did not know how to answer a question without presenting it on a pillow surrounded by thirty minutes of feathered ancient philosophies, most about G-D, which he never said explicitly though this was very much intentional.

Witnessing him in a moment of vulnerability would prove to be an odd hurdle for me to jump when later presented with the confidence that dressed his speech. Every sentence I wanted to debate but was smart enough not to counter thoughts I didn’t even understand. Instead, my mind attempted to reconcile his tears with dogmas and truths.

It didn’t occur to me I’d developed pre-conceived notions about him, his truth and philosophies. He taught me that I did and that his tears had been the basis of his truth.

Though I never clapped at the end of his speeches, I did go home and cry.  I learned that ones truth cannot help but become shackled to their confidence and accordingly, both must weep.