FICTION
My Father Is His Mother’s Son
A Poem — “No,” he’ll say, “I’m my mother’s son.”
My father never talked about his father
buried in a graveyard nearby
leaving a self-portrait in his inheritance
for my father to have concrete proof that he’s a man’s child
Its surface has crumpled, forming waves of paper on his stoic face
Mildew grows at the corner, spreading colonies to his jaw and bottom lip
Nobody knows how he looks behind the damages
except for grandma on her deathbed
My father shows affection by driving 235 km for his daughter or catching a flying cockroach in the kitchen
through the lame jokes he sometimes cracks and baffling antics we don’t understand
His tongue isn’t used to saying ‘love’
Nevertheless, the dead need no helping hand
I am left with a puzzle to tackle, putting pieces of his words and actions
for the tiniest hint of his transparent heart turning opaque all of a sudden
A friend once made a sermon to the oceans
an attempt to rebel against the God her parents beat her to worship
The opening lines were, ‘We drink water for a gallon, and without its mercy, our body will fall, becoming arid stems of bones’
I remember my father scoffed, “That’s bullshit! Some things grow and survive with the soil alone.”
My father can’t reminisce about his father
A loan shark visited his childhood house one evening in chilly December ‘75
and reclaimed the overdue rented soul residing between his father’s ribs and spine
People call him a splitting image of his father
“No,” he’ll say, “I’m my mother’s son,” with a loud laughter resembling a baby’s cry
My father had to learn from clueless men in his neighborhood
passing on wisdom about bad leadership and smoking weed from their oblivious fathers and uncles
He got his first cigarette from them, inhaling the smoke of manhood into his lungs, chocking
Still, his pockets were heavy with questions
years later, remaining unanswered
My father walks the opposite way to our home after Friday salat
He stops at a modest gate to say his salaam, and then takes a narrow, slippery path to the left wing
He kneels beside an old grave with a small tree growing from its mound
My father puts a hand on the tombstone
reciting verses he manages to remember
hoping his murmurs reach his father underground
To his father, he removes the armor of a father
of maturity
of manliness
A boy within him wakes up from a slumber
taking over his mouth, “Bapak.”
My father hums a melody as he enters our home from the front door
his mouth is his again
and the armor is on
but a glint of the boy is found in his eyes
giving me a sign to look at his pockets
Oh! They’re lighter
This is a tribute to my bapak who has done an excellent job as a father although he himself grew up without one.
Thank you so much for reading!
