Work made him an absentee...
Death made him a memory...
But it didn’t matter anymore.
As the eldest, I stepped into the gap,
Mother’s assistant, Mother’s partner,
Building a home out of a garage, a shanty by the riles,
A borrowed room in a relative's house.
We were a family... because we chose to be.
Despite the hardships, we excelled,
Proving that poverty is not a lack of grace,
Only a lack of means.
We were a strange band of characters, shifting with the decades.
In the 80s, four...
In the 90s, minus a sister to the white blood cell war...
Plus new brothers, new sister, a second marriage.
We shared it all: toothpaste, socks, bath towels,
Coveting desserts and reading diaries in the dark.
We were experts at inflicting pain
And kissing to heal it in the same instant...
A common thread binding the chaos,
And that thread was her.
Always, her.
Family shaped me, wired me, defined me...
Until I realized I had to be more than a reflection.
I didn’t always know what I wanted to be,
But I knew exactly what I didn’t want to be.
I chose to form an identity
Apart from the struggle... apart from the ghosts.
Then came the phone call, five years ago.
A girl. A dying man. A claim of blood.
Forgive him, she said, so he can die in peace.
Whether true or not, I added them to my list,
Learning the stories of a father I never knew,
Seeing my own face in his history...
Wishing I had met them before the silence.
Now, my priorities are a different kind of quiet.
My choices are for the three of us...
Less complicated. Intact. Ever-present.
I choose to be the father who stays.
But sometimes I wonder...
Would I be this strong-willed, this patient?
Would I be this beautifully disturbed
To help the least-favored...
If we hadn’t survived the riles and the rooms?
That is a question...
I wouldn't risk answering now.
