Insecure

Grayness...

Is it just me or is everyone gray in your life? Often when I post this question at school I hear people talking and asking if I'm alright, and I am.
When I say "gray" I do not mean the color. I guess it is just my figuritive language. People do not know who they want to be. In my opinion they have one choice: black or white. But no, everyone has to act like one another, and be "gray." Fear sets in their hearts as if they will not be accepted and apreciated the way they are.
As I sit on the porch writing, I hear the soft rain pouring from the evening sky. My father is in his office,typing. After a few hours the keys become musical and I can almost hear a beat to his words. The monotomous tone drains his eyes, and ears. I sit listening, and wonder where is my mother. She was not here after I came home from school, which has just took a big toll on me. Disappearing without a note, or call, I assume the position, making dinner for me and dad, like I have done numerous times in the past.
I hate that word,past. It nearly brings tears to my eyes. The piercing thought of it makes me lose my security. Briskly walking down the dark narrow hallway I hear the clicks and clacks of the keys being pressed with a beat so unaware of itself.
"Dinner's ready." I manage to say with a wimper in my voice. My soft voice nearly startles him, as he jumps from his desk.
The desk was filled with pictures of me, and my mother. Pictures of us at the beach, pictures of the past, pictures of secure times.
"I'll be out in a minute, honey. Thanks for making dinner tonight. I'll be on tommorrow." He said jokingly with a smile. Looking into his eyes I saw a man with fear, and deep wrinkles and lines protruded his narrow face aging him about ten years.
"Is mom coming home?" I ask, half afraid of the truth, that I will be given.
"Oh, yeah, she will, uh, be home in a little while." I could tell by his stammering quakey voice that their was little security in that notion.
As I sat across from him at the dinner table, he mentioned compliments on the food, and we had other meaningless conversation. I concentrated mostly on figuring out why mom was gone, where she could be, and most of all was she coming back?
She, in fact, was gray. She wanted to be a successful business woman, and be considered a PTA mother. She wants the best of both worlds. But she isn't here. As I sat across from my father, I couldn't help but like him all the more. He handles her immaturity with grace and elegance that can only be taught through experience.
I couldn't help but wonder: Does my father feel secure?