Jetxa
02-21-2007, 06:43 PM
Tomorrow Comes
I keep his picture in a Bible as, like me, not many open a Bible with any regularity. It’s not that it’s hidden. It’s just that it’s my memory, my picture of my dad, my dead dad. Dead at sixteen in a car crash my mother said. She was fifteen, pregnant and two months along. She hadn’t know it at the time and often regretted not being able to tell my dad although she knew back then it would not have been welcome news. Now she says I am all she has of him and is glad for it.
As I gaze at his picture I see our dark eyes unlike any I’ve run across, our eyes being dark gray like a shattered glass kaleidoscope. Girls often comment on the depth of my eyes when they make little girl attempts at flirting. Mom says the same about dad’s eyes. Mom says he was different in so many ways; that he was calm and steady yet vibrantly alive with passion and movement. Things she says she sees in me but not quite with the same strength of character. That saddens me. I want so much to measure up, to fill his shoes, to take his place in my mother’s heart. Competing with a dead man, father or otherwise, is a hard act to follow as the dead are most often immortalized perfect leaving the living naturally flawed.
I often pretend he sees me. Some people tell me that’s true, that the dead hang around and keep an eye on us. I wonder why they’re not scared off at times and also wonder why knowing they watch doesn’t keep us from doing the things we would wish to keep from prying eyes. So perhaps I really don’t believe. But I have to say it keeps me wondering at times what he would think of me if he did watch. I remember once while playing baseball I caught a fly ball and stood savoring the moment while seeing dad in the stands standing and clapping and cheering me on. But he is a boy and not a man and somehow the fantasy just doesn’t feel right. A cry of “throw the freaking ball!” woke me from my daydream as there were runners to tag out. Real life demands priority.
It’s hard looking at the face of a boy your own age and trying to come to terms with knowing he fathered you. It seems so unreal especially when you know you aren’t ready for the sex act and shy around girls. It’s hard to imagine what it took to be brave enough to ask a girl out on a date let alone do the dirty deed. But then the face staring back at me is a man-boy while I am just a boy.
I know this will be the last time I look at his face for a very long time. Just this morning I stared in the mirror and noted the changes I see starting to overtake my face and my body. I am growing and aging. My dad never will. One day a man will look at the picture of his dad and see a boy. I don’t want to think about that. I wonder how long it will be before I can look upon his face again.
I put his picture back in the Bible and lean my head against the bookshelf and feel my body heave with sobs. Life goes on and I must go with it. Mom can keep her memories. I have none. All I have is a picture and a story. A fantasy and a dream. A face that looks like mine . . . for now.
I keep his picture in a Bible as, like me, not many open a Bible with any regularity. It’s not that it’s hidden. It’s just that it’s my memory, my picture of my dad, my dead dad. Dead at sixteen in a car crash my mother said. She was fifteen, pregnant and two months along. She hadn’t know it at the time and often regretted not being able to tell my dad although she knew back then it would not have been welcome news. Now she says I am all she has of him and is glad for it.
As I gaze at his picture I see our dark eyes unlike any I’ve run across, our eyes being dark gray like a shattered glass kaleidoscope. Girls often comment on the depth of my eyes when they make little girl attempts at flirting. Mom says the same about dad’s eyes. Mom says he was different in so many ways; that he was calm and steady yet vibrantly alive with passion and movement. Things she says she sees in me but not quite with the same strength of character. That saddens me. I want so much to measure up, to fill his shoes, to take his place in my mother’s heart. Competing with a dead man, father or otherwise, is a hard act to follow as the dead are most often immortalized perfect leaving the living naturally flawed.
I often pretend he sees me. Some people tell me that’s true, that the dead hang around and keep an eye on us. I wonder why they’re not scared off at times and also wonder why knowing they watch doesn’t keep us from doing the things we would wish to keep from prying eyes. So perhaps I really don’t believe. But I have to say it keeps me wondering at times what he would think of me if he did watch. I remember once while playing baseball I caught a fly ball and stood savoring the moment while seeing dad in the stands standing and clapping and cheering me on. But he is a boy and not a man and somehow the fantasy just doesn’t feel right. A cry of “throw the freaking ball!” woke me from my daydream as there were runners to tag out. Real life demands priority.
It’s hard looking at the face of a boy your own age and trying to come to terms with knowing he fathered you. It seems so unreal especially when you know you aren’t ready for the sex act and shy around girls. It’s hard to imagine what it took to be brave enough to ask a girl out on a date let alone do the dirty deed. But then the face staring back at me is a man-boy while I am just a boy.
I know this will be the last time I look at his face for a very long time. Just this morning I stared in the mirror and noted the changes I see starting to overtake my face and my body. I am growing and aging. My dad never will. One day a man will look at the picture of his dad and see a boy. I don’t want to think about that. I wonder how long it will be before I can look upon his face again.
I put his picture back in the Bible and lean my head against the bookshelf and feel my body heave with sobs. Life goes on and I must go with it. Mom can keep her memories. I have none. All I have is a picture and a story. A fantasy and a dream. A face that looks like mine . . . for now.