An Old Block

Your dad was a fine man.

I will never hear those words. 

It boils down to two factors:  No one knows I am his son.  And he was not a fine man.

I found out my father died April 2009; three months after the fact.  It was strange to be crying over a man I had never met.  It seemed unfair to be overwhelmed with loss for someone I couldn't recognize in an empty room.

It seemed unfair to feel anything for him.I discovered love the day I heard of his death. 

As I attempted to share the news of this man's passing to my girlfriend, she cried.  She cried for me.  As if, I had lost someone close.  Someone important.  Someone significant.  Someone worthy of any of my emotions.

As if I needed comfort.

I discovered just how much she really loved me.

I had a recurring thought as she tried to bring me comfort; comfort I wasn't seeking.  I thought she is a chip off the old block.

As much as I hate cliches, that specific one echoed in my brain.

When you see her or listen to her, her father has his fingerprints all over her.  She resonates kindness.  Love.  Understanding.  She is like her father.

The apple didn't fall far from the tree.  

Maybe my father's obituary was the needle prick I felt.  The dagger in my heart.  Certainly, I knew I didn't mean much to him.  But somewhere deep inside of me, I hoped and believed he thought about me once in awhile.



 

I never wanted a Jerry Springer moment with him.  I didn't even want a postcard.  I just wanted one simple thought every now and then.
Either I was the only child he fathered or there were others he never mentioned or thought of.

According to his obituary, he is only survived by a HALF-brother and some neighbors.

It was strange that a simple sentence like that could make me feel so small. 

I envy those with families.  I always have.

I do not understand those who cannot stand the company of their families.  Those who go years without speaking to certain members.

Then, it strikes me odd when I hear about the guilt some feel when certain family members die...I should have called once in awhile.  Why didn't I, at least, send a Christmas card?  I don't even remember what we were fighting about.  

I don't care what anyone says; there is a huge void left in one's life without a family.

None of us choose our parents but they do choose us.  And maybe, just maybe, that's why my father's passing impacted me in such an indescribable way.

I could look at him in two ways:  He abandoned me or he chose me.

I struggle with those options.

I've always heard that there is a correlation between young girls who are promiscuous and not having a dominant father figure in their life.  It's as if those girls are trying to fill that void with any man.  It's as if they believe that the only way to find love or affection is by giving into any man.

They seem to equate love with sex.

Because they don't know better.

My dad died at the age of 82 which means he was 44 when I was born.  My mom was 23.She did not have a dominant father figure growing up which probably explains why she found herself married to a man twice her age.

For a man, I cannot think of a more important role in life than being a father. 

Or better yet, an old block.