The Detritus of a Man I Barely Knew

I saw my father this morning.
Mind you, he’s been dead for a minute now — but fuck me, there he was.
That once imposing vestige folding itself back onto me.

Sadly, I was staring at my own reflection in the bathroom mirror.

What I saw unsettled me — fear, disgust, and something else I couldn’t name.
Hate, maybe? Perhaps something worse.

The remnants of a man I barely knew.
At least, that’s what I’ve come to realize.

My father had this way of being in a room and somewhere else entirely.
Yeah, he was that dude, never fully with you, but always making sure you knew he was there.

I’ve tried to come to grips with the parts of me that are undeniably him —
the anger, the vengefulness, the bitterness…
and that all-time great, lust.

Yeah, that last one’s a muthafucker.
But thankfully, it’s the one trait I’ve managed to keep at bay.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

Some days, a brother just has to… you know, be who he be.
I’m not saying it’s right.
But it’s real.

I had a lover once who wanted me to chase away any thoughts of my father —
as if wishing him away could somehow wipe him out of existence.

Neat trick, if it were possible. Lord knows I’ve tried.

The problem with that lover — who, by the way, I still love,
though the recompense would cost more than I have left to give.

That lover never understood my need to unravel the riddle of my father
is really an insatiable need to understand myself.

Mostly, the absence of things I desire.
And the overabundance of things I long to shed.

My father died alone.

In his final days, the regret of past deeds, broken relationships, and unfulfilled promises
withered on a vine that was once full of blooming potential.

In the end, his life closed in a dirty motel room —
a room full of questions,
with the answers scattered among the detritus of a life spent running from love.

Truth be told, I worry I might face the same fate.

Not because I’ve run from love,
but because I fear I no longer have the stamina to seek it out.

Story for another day, maybe.

Anyway, lately I’ve noticed my tendency to isolate.
Not sure if it’s something innate, something I inherited from him,
or if it’s something else entirely.
Fear, maybe.

I guess next time I see him staring back at me in the mirror,
I’ll ask.

Now there’s a thought.

MH ~

P.S. – You may have noticed I never refer to my father as “dad.” That’s intentional.”

I’ve come to believe that the title father refers to the duty of a man to guide his offspring, in my case, his son, in the ways of being a man.
In that respect, my father served me well, though many of those lessons gave root to lasting trauma.

Hey, I’m dealing with it.

Nonetheless, I have to concede, he was a father.

But “dad”?
No.

He wasn’t the dad who showed up to track meets,
who made it a point to be purposeful with his time,
who carved space in his day just for his son (me).?

Yeah, no, he wasn’t that dad.

The first time I ever heard my father say the words “I love you” with the deep intent required
was when he gently, and wait for it, — lovingly whispered them to my daughter
on the day she was born.

Like I said… he was that dude.

Go figure.