For everyone who knows the feeling of being abondoned by a father...: There is a picture frame that hangs in our living room. Half object and half woman in the way that it remains unshaken. I watch it, this frame— As winds blow hard through our open window curtains. It hangs firm. There have been nights where it has hung to its side, Almost tilted But not once have I ever seen it fall. It kind of reminds me of someone that I know. On mornings like this, I think about the night my father decided that my sisters and I were nothing but a series of apologies. A sequel of mistakes. The night he held his heart upside down and emptied himself. Feet to the moon, Head to the ground, And walked out like his children were a disease that he couldn’t wait to cure himself of. My mother didn’t clutch her fists and squeeze her hands to hold him in. Instead, She gracefully let her palms breathe and let him go. On mornings like this, I think about how she didn’t cry. How she paraded down the hallway into the kitchen and prepared supper. We ate like it was Christmas that evening. All 7 colours, honey. The same way that families with fathers can. I think about the way, in which she held the door knob in her hands. Fingers, trembling, Heart, racing, And shut the door. I’m still not sure if it was sweat on her face or tears, But I remember wishing my arms were as broad as the sky to swallow her in the same way the night sky shelters broken stars. I remember thinking, My God! If this was me! A door step away from raising 5 kids on my own. If my children, had to watch me break into half as I opened my hands to rejection the same way prisoners accept stale supper. If I had to watch as 14 years of my life turned its back on me. Every limb of my body would turn into debris. Every pore would ooze anger, And pain And hatred But instead, like the frame that hangs in our living room, I watched her— This woman. Half angel, Half human. I observed her calm. Her cool And I thought to myself, If this was me, I would have longed cursed the heavens for my scraped knees. For all the prayers that went unanswered. If this was me, I would be tilted, And bent, And tired. One of my aunts said: You know, one day he is going to come back One day this will only be a story left to tell your children. I didn’t listen. Instead, I sat in our living room and watched the frame, My mother. In admiration, Out of habit. Hangin on. Standing firm. I still watch it, as it hangs so neatly next to my father’s picture. I think about our trips to Port St Johns. I delete every picture that I have ever had of him. I don’t know what he looks like when he is still here. I don’t know what he looks like when he stays. Sometimes, I prefer the dead version of him in my head. But sometimes, In the quiet and abondoned 3a.m . When I am listening to the Commodores. When I am listening to Jazz In the moments everyone is asleep and my mind is a pool of what could have been. When I am not looking at the frame, Or my mother.. I think of him. Suitcase in each hand, His back facing my wet eyes, I think of him. Slowly, walking away.
Posted on: Mon, 19 Jan 2015 19:46:26 +0000