Author: Julian Shelnutt
My father now only exists in half memories,
distant little things.
A hair covered barrel chest with a heartbeat-
the grit of a close shaved beard coarse as cat's tongue-
A nickname of sweet pea which no longer applies to me.
I've lost the sweet and greenery.
All my young life I've been in search of a father.
A man with kindness,
a man whose prerequisites aren't simple to define
because Man cannot be defined.
I look for a man who is kind,
a man who is attentive,
a father that could be there and know what I wanted.
Instead I only received the half memory,
and I became a hungry ghost,
lost somewhere in the middle of the family tree,
and only taken out to be shown as the unique granddaughter
among a baker's dozen.
There I am no more or less.
A dad, a father, I would even settle for an uncle now.
Wacky, joking, distant but charmed I'm sure.
I thought I had found such a figure
yet he lies dead now
like most times when I think I've landed the one.
A figure that was rancorous, but not cantankerous,
Casual, yet had a lilt, and a man who was a man
because he had, at his core, been thoughtful
if at times absent in his own mind, judgement.
A figure who travelled the world and came back
as if to specifically tell me all he had seen.
And his messages had always ended with the fact
the world is not to be scared of, not then and not now,
that the world is to be loved, adored, and admired for all its beauty,
even the beauty hidden in its sorest and teensiest pockets.
I wept when he died. Even though I knew I could hear him,
even then, inside my head as I went to heave in the shower,
the voice which had spoken many languages roughly,
a voice that had soothed the ears.
The figure said to me,
"I was dumb. I did something stupid, and I can't take it back this time. You can cry if you need to. You can place bets on how many tattoos they'll find on my body. You can drink a little to deal with it. I could apologize, but I'd rather not. I admit what I did was stupid.
“But, it's better now, as they say. I'm not in pain anymore, as they say. I'm in a better place now, as they say. Do what you need to do, but don't follow me here. Cry for a day or two, but because I'm not there doesn't mean you don't need to be. Cry a little harder and get past it."
And I cried a little harder and got past it.
My search might not end
it might never be resolved
my young life continues forwards
and I sway with the dawn.
And later on I hear the own cries of my own children.
They don’t call me father, or exactly an uncle, but dad.
A pillar to lean on, a little rough, but marbled in matter.
I repeat the same mantra as before but with significant feeling,
It’s no longer taking a drink to get over.
The bitter drink that touches my lips is only in celebration.