She Never Gave Permission
Father by Blood
It was a typical Thursday afternoon or at least what seemed typical for the limited stays I had in their home. I was sitting in the chair closest to the corner of the apricot tinted wall on their rustic dining table. From here I had a clear perspective of my surroundings and found comfort in having my back parallel to the wall. I examined the space first. Across the square dining table was a obnoxious still life of fruits on a plate. No values, just solid shapes with a limited color palette of yellow, red and brown. The muted colors desperate for touch; the canvas being their first interaction. The rest of the home’s interior had accents of these colors. The space was set up for comfort, but the feeling was temporary. Everything was huddled in a bound space and under the guise of necessary extravagance. My stepmom comes into the scene. She sat in the table and began speaking to me. The conversation was one sided and had become routine. I watch her lips as they danced to the familiarity of her sentences. I am confined in silence and listening with my vision. She hands me a open envelope.
The sheet inside was folded precisely into three rectangles. Ink sits on the sheet in wait for a response. His handwriting foreign to me. In the letter, his tone was apologetic yet casual. He was curious about my days and emotional state. He also asked me to watch my little sisters and to tell my other sister that he loves her. He was sure she wouldn’t open his letter. He concluded the letter by saying I was the only one that understood him and truly loved him. I bring my teary eyes to the bottom right corner of the last rectangle and there is a black line drawing of Mickey Mouse. This sheet was most likely given to the ones that had children. I examined the reproduced image. Inside he had used three colors to fill in the mouse. For the head he used a soft pink, the body an apple red and the shoes a lemon yellow. All of the colors were within the black lines that constructed the image. His process of choosing those warm tones and spending time on filling the image with color was the most effort he has ever demonstrated towards us. I fold the sheet back into thirds then fold it one more time to fit it in my pocket.
I bring my attention to the back of the couch that’s slightly touching the dining table. My two stepsisters are watching El Chavo and sitting patiently through commercials. Their afternoon is heavy with expectation. I turn to the clock above the main door and it’s a quarter to seven. This is typically the time of his arrival. I observe as my sisters unconsciously nudge their heads to the door expecting some kind of miracle. My stepmom does the same. There’s not the slightest chance, but I guess it’s turned routine.The weight of their reality crushes the slightest strand of desire. I try to convince myself that I hate him, but the amount of effort I have to put proves opposite. I inject myself with memory and feed my heart with resentment. Nothing.
My relationship with him changed in weight throughout the years. It was never linear; our periods of a healthy relationship was provisional. I accumulate all the years of his wrong doings and gather them in my arms. I go to him with my gatherings after he has appeared and when I am in front of him I look down and I have lost all of my belongings. My embrace was loose and I left a trail of indignation. I am now standing in front of him with nothing in my arms and am silenced by his presence. That is the only expectation I ever had for him. He will never understand that.
The relationship between him and all my siblings has revolved around currency since birth. He tucks us in with green paper, and turns off the light. We wake up because the sheet is not thick enough to keep us warm. I understand that he had been told by the men before him that this is the way things are, but it surprises me that he does not impose the originality of his being. The neverending race of success between brothers weakens his capabilites and sinks him deeper into a jungle of all he’s ever known. He has always been tangled in the jungles vines and has forgotten his way back. I met a glimpse of the man he once was. It was one day he decided not to go to work. He said he wasn’t feeling well, but he looked physically capable. We spent the day in the structure we once called home and sat within the comfort of each other’s presence. We did absolutely nothing; not a word was exchanged but it was satisfying. That is why I am constantly stretching my arm across the vines. He recognizes the language in my eyes and feels like the father he has the potential to be.
An unfamiliar energy has recently latched onto my body. Possibly drawn by the stretching of skin over time. It tells me to try to save this man. It urges me to speak the language only he and I understand. To pull him out of nothingness for the sake of the children that depend on his existence. It tells me, but I can’t because I have come to realize that I have no connection to this man other than the blood that streams in our veins. The intimate language I thought we spoke was nothing but a mere construction from my expectation. I look at myself and I see the man’s image overlapping mine and they sync, but it is only that. His human lurks in my subconsciousness and acts as if we are acquaintances. Throughout the years I watch the man as he stumbles over his neglected mistakes and finds refuge in romantic affairs. I hear a familiarity in his voice when he apologizes to my sisters for forgetting to pick them up from school and I see the disinterest in his dialect. I do not understand this man and that’s why I have so much attachment to him.
I stand from where I’ve been sitting and sit by my younger sisters. They are starting to understand that people come and go at a premature age. Their current suffering breaks me, but it is necessary for their ideals. I embrace my sisters and tell them that it is okay to not understand, and even as they age they still don’t have to. I explain to them that the man will make them feel guilty. That he will act like he acknowledges he’s been a bad father, but that it is a trap that leads into an infinity of justification. I tell them that the man will bring up seconds of glee and use that to validate his decades of absence. I tell them that they will never know the man but the man is who he says he is. I tell them that the man will make them believe that they were the cause of the tearing of their bond and they will believe him and hate themselves for it. I tell them that they will despise the man for making them hate themselves. I tell them to not hate the man. I do not loathe this man and I never did. He has already lost two of five children. He has turned into a ghost for them. There is no point in resurrecting because they don’t want to be brought back to the memories of neglect. I cannot despise him because I am grateful to him. He has taught me to control my vulnerability and live with what I’ve been provided. He taught me affection with the corruption of his treatment. He handed me a scroll of behaviors to be conscious of and was the primal example of each one of them. He reminded me that my mother is both the sun and the moon. I hold no resentment towards the man, because of him I am liberated. I forgive you.
