PATRICIDE IN ABSENTIA

Father’s Day


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Pic of my dad’s WW2 aircraft (a Hellcat) landing on his WW2 Carrier (The Ticonderoga)

I revisit thoughts and emotions about my dad, still trying to figure “us” out.

My Father

I miss my dad.
  Not that whole
  dewy-eyed,
  sentimental,
  made-For-TV
  kind of miss him.
  Not Disney
  or sitcoms
  or the
  hero of the story
  whose kids
  all adore him
  (though none
  of them have any speaking parts
  so who can tell for sure?)
 
  I don’t
  miss his constant wisdom
  (if there ever was any)
  or witty
  lessons
  (if he ever offered any)
  and I don’t miss
  our long walks/
  talks/fishing trips
  (because we never had any)
  or throwing a ball
  or his wise sayings about life
  ect etc etc
  blah blah blah
  none of which, also, ever happened.
 
  I don’t miss the feeling
  of being afraid of him
  or later,
  I don’t miss
  feeling glad or bad
  about disappointing him,
  which were major emotions for me
  with him
  and are permanent
  memories
  of our
  ‘Relationship,’
  such as it was.
 
  I don’t miss his corrections,
  sometimes
  sarcastic and
  caustic,
  sometimes just
  flat-out cruel.
 
  Nor do I miss the very few times
  he angrily laid hands on me
  his face twisted into
  something,
  between
  exasperation
  and hateful rage —
 
  So,
  I miss him?
  Really?
  How? Why?
 
  What I miss
  is what I imagine
  he and I might have been
  together
  if our roles,
  father and son
  hadn’t been so
  stupidly
  assigned
  and accepted —
 
  I miss
  how we might have been
  friends
  if we’d been
  just a couple guys,
  who met under
  different circumstances,
  like two strangers
  in a bar
  flirting with a couple
  pretty women,
  good looking blond sisters,
  and this stranger and I
  realizing,
  we needed to work together
  to pull off
  anything good
  before ‘Last call’.
  In other words,
  I miss my dad,
  not for whom he was
  but for who we might have been —
 
  I miss the guy
  he couldn’t be with me
  and I miss
  the guy I could never be with him.
  The best I can manage now
  is to confess that
  if all the rules about
  loving family
  weren’t real
  (and I think they aren’t)
  I’d still miss my old man,
  for reasons I don’t begin
  to understand —
  or need to.

Jesus Trash
Pic of my dad’s WW2 aircraft (a Hellcat) landing on his WW2 Carrier (The Ticonderoga)
Sheehan

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