Logically there must exist a computer game where the objective is to shoot and destroy incoming hostile objects, let's say UFOs for argument's sake. If you can't pull the trigger fast enough the UFOs build up and fill the screen and then the game is over.

That is what conversations with Dad were like for seventeen years after he stopped wanting to be a father. Only the incoming objects were not UFOs but lies. Together the lies formed a ficticious reality, something alien and threatening and false that my Dad wished was true but wasn't. Whenever we spoke Dad would start shooting them off, lots and lots of lies which I had to shoot down one by one, hyper-vigilant lest one lie get past my defenses and all would be lost. His ficticious reality covered not only the present but the past as well. A great deal was at stake: the story of my life. Had I ever had a father or was it true that he had always been Mr. Don't-pin-me-down with no ties, no conflicts and zero feelings? I was an excellent player. I imagine that on some level Dad was proud of me for not letting him win his bullshit game. We did not speak too often. Both of us got so exhausted by the game I imagine.

We could have been playing Battleships only in that game the players have to admit if the other has scored a hit. Dad's rules did not allow admitting anything.  

When Dad had a stroke, communication changed a bit. No longer being able to walk is something  that is hard to deny. Fewer UFOs. Less shooting.

I invented a new game. I explained the rules to Dad. "When you have time I will call you and ask you about your life." We tried it. The rules were simple. I asked questions. He remembered stuff. I asked more questions. About his childhood, his mother and father, about his sisters. Though Dad liked the new game we never switched positions. I remained the black pawn stalking the white king.  Speaking with Dad got easier with this last game we invented.

Now Dad is confined to the apartment and can't sneak off to call me on his cell phone from the garage. A new pattern emerged. As if his subtitle machine breaks from time to time and the words don't fit what is happening on the screen:  

Dad on the phone: "So, we'll be in touch. It was nice of you to call."

Me: "Oh were we done talking? Is your wife pissed that I called?"

Dad: "Yes lovely to hear from you. Take care now. Bye."