" I can't even slightly remember the tone, or the sound of his voice anymore.
Maybe, at times, I can hear him clearing his throat in my mind. His chubby face and that wonky smile. That pitiful limp he had - a significance - that he was my Dad.
I've asked my Mom about nearly a million questions about him. Many of which she could answer, and all , a long speech followed. It wasn't a lecture about my annoying inquisition about this near-stranger. But a constant, fair reminder from my mother that he wasn't the perfect man, but he probably tried to be. Sometimes I find myself stuck in a pot of assorted feelings towards this man. Should I hate him for not trying hard enough? Or should I love him because he's my father, and he did try after all? I haven't had any significant memory of him. Probably the biggest thing he's ever given me was fear. And it wasn't the fear that he might have another family and not love me anymore, no - it was the spark to a handful of them. I felt insecure, uncomfortable with myself. That whoever loved me was going to leave me midway. It got me on my toes, but that faded away in a while. My family, or what was left of it, fought through it together.
My family - even though incomplete, has its own joys to celebrate. Our monetary blessings, our four-legged Corgi that's a bundle of rolling overweight joy, our warm, humble abode, and our perfect mobility as humans. None of us three (Mom, older sister and me) have been terminally ill. Unless you consider the fact I've been in hospital in my toddler years on a drip once, fractured my arm and had a minor concussion. But that's aside the fact. I have plenty to thank God for, a million blessings to count, and alot to be happy and cheery over. Alas, the perfectionist nature in humans is difficult to avoid I suppose. Maybe I felt that I had a hole in my heart and that needed to be fixed, maybe I lacked the love, or so I thought. So I embarked on that adolescent search of love. That's a big boo-boo there, it left me worst off than before. It left me in a ditch that I dug on my own. And I guess that did affect my behaviour towards my family greatly.
I admit, we're not the happiest of families. We quarrel, a lot. It's not something to be proud of, mind. Indeed, sometimes I hate why we are like that, blaming each other one thing and some time next, another. To be honest, it has been several months or even a year, since we last sat down together for a proper meal. But I have to understand. A single-parent working mother, hardly ever having the time to cook, much less spend a full day out for her daughters, a sister, whom is struggling with work-life-work-studies-life-work-life. And there's me - a confused messy bundle of, just. Mess. Like a surprise, I'd like to think.
So there's the hole. No Dad. There are plenty of families like that now. And I'm pretty sure they feel the same some time. Maybe they've gotten used to it, and so have I. But don't we all wish we did have a perfect American-stereotype family? Mom in the kitchen making pancakes, Dad with his tie on and his briefcase on the counter. Siblings sitting at the breakfast table gulping their food by the spoonfuls, rushing for the bus. Mom kisses Dad goodbye. ...Just, that. Probably there are families that don't have that hole, but have more cracks than those who do. A crumbling castle, beyond repair.
What does he look like? Everything is so vague. It has been nearly six years since I last saw Dad. His big bear hugs, his loud, earth-shattering snores. What was he like? What is he like now? I was so curious about all these, yet I was also afraid of this man, and what was to be. It'd be awkward too, wouldn't it. Thank God he is still alive though, and I hope he is coping well with his new family. I'm glad I did or do have a Dad. Vague, but better than nothing. Wherever you are Dad, thanks.
I was the fastest sperm after all, and I came from you."
Hahahahahahaha. I love the last line.