Choose. Choices. Choice. II

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.