One for the old man

We all have a father of some sort. I am speaking of the biological sort.

Absent or present, beneficial or not so much, you and I came from some dude’s sperm. I am here to tell a small tale of a recent change in my relationship with my old man. Why should you care? Well, I find it better to try than not in a father-daughter or father-son bond because you only get one real kind. And even if you are throwing back beers with the Mr. as I write, there is always a reason to cheers to blood.

My papa smurf, as I like calling him, and I were not always great friends. A generation gap of forty eight years is not helpful. Then there is his traditional ideals withstanding an ‘immature kid’s take’ on the modern world. Life can be tough also. Mothers do not live forever and when all you are left with is empty space between you two…it can create some issues.

Then I tried to look at him differently. I stopped seeing him as that annoying authoritative man I always knew. I saw him as just a man that I happened to know quite well. And on August 2, 2010 I wrote this poem through his eyes:

“The milk is beginning to taste sour.

Blossoms are dying without successors,                                                                                       Songbirds give nothing new to eager ears,                                                                                 And this old brother feels its years;                                                                                                 Malevolent.

Those things I feared, tucked underneath, uncarefully,                                                             Have sprouted like beans.                                                                                                               Issues solved by a trusty chequebook,                                                                                         Have bounced like children’s toys.

Trusts trusted too soon, now snicker at my back,                                                                     And the weight of my treasures now slice my fingers.

I wanted nothing less than to be that man with a grey hat.                                                       The notion of failure feels ridiculous; peculiar.                                                                             The formula so easy to read.                                                                                                           But now I question understanding.

Nevertheless, they will always love you.                                                                                       My dearest innocent, how much you gave,                                                                                   And fair receive you did not.                                                                                                            I saw this whilst your virginity yet maintained.                                                                         I was sure to learn not to give that much.                                                                                   With you, I need not even try.

My comfortable seat grew comfortable still,                                                                                 Though now I sit on thorns left from your roses.                                                                         My pieces are left as one hand writes this will.                                                                           I know I have little to show once your flowers quit,                                                                   A sad shrine for your remnants to fill.

You would be happy to know,                                                                                                           This house will be with strangers soon.                                                                                         As for your daughters,                                                                                                                       You know better than me.

Please just one more favour,                                                                                                           For old times sake, if nothing else.                                                                                                 Give me news of how to find reconciliation,                                                                                 I am a man at his most lonesome desperation.”

Disclaimer: These words are not his, but mine, in an attempt to connect with his soul and find the man I felt vulnerable underneath.

Since writing this I have changed my perceptions; they are in constant flux, yours are too. But take from this a general sense of deep empathy and its power to unite. It is often easier to identify with someone’s misfortunes than luck, so I may have delved into melancholic waters to seek out his heart. And through this method I did find him; my new best friend. He is only a person, like that man who just crossed your path on the beaten sidewalk. To hold our fathers to inhuman expectations would disallow a human relationship.

My dad is human. Yours is too. The details do not matter when time is so precious and life so unpredictable. Give love because it can only make your life happier as it has mine. I love you papa smurf!

Now go tell your dad you love him too.