My Father

The shadow of my Father stalks me through life. Whether it offers guidance or turmoil is the source of ongoing turbulence. Like so many men of my ilk, the psychological patrimony lurks in the dark recesses of my mind, far enough away to offer negligible value but close enough to unsteady my legs. The harder I strive to understand the more my mind spins and my heart reverberates with angst. It is a mirage that evades as I quicken my pace.

Life’s experiences as a young man were absent of a father’s assurances and warm embrace. Do I judge him too hard, a man from a different generation? Is this not the way of familial life, a different time where the heart was subordinated to stern guidance of a patriarch? Do I create excuses to preserve any semblance of a son’s respect and admiration? Why is it so important to understand? To shrug and accept may be a logical path but it will not unlock the door that obstructs my path. It must be conquered.

Through life, opportunities present themselves, frequently to be ignored. My Father’s uncharacteristic attempt to signal his love at an old age, only to be brushed aside out of selfish pride, blind anger, or inability to reciprocate. His passing ended possibilities. This memory will haunt me forever. We become so enmeshed in our personal tragedies that we are blind to the possibility that we have become what we attribute our unhappiness to. To the wise sage Pogo, maybe I have met the enemy and it is me. But to hate myself is not the answer. This is a question that merits the struggle. This struggle is the essence of this journey. There is no turning back.