Mirage.
I’ve always had an odd relationship with my father. He was in my life at the start of my childhood, yet never truly there. Whenever I would visit him in Chicago, he would leave me with drunkard Uncle Ben. I guess this wasn’t all that bad. It’s just that Uncle Ben always carried a terrible smell with him. It didn’t matter how many showers he took. As soon as he came out, he was already smelly.
Besides his constant stink, he passed gas in his sleep. Whenever I heard him go off, I had to run hide in my father’s room. Believe me, if we would have had gas heating, he would’ve kept the place fueled to the max.
Besides my uncle’s repelling habits, he let me play with knives. No, I never hurt myself, but I don’t think I would’ve allowed that if I had been in his position. Then again I don’t think I would ever get drunk on the weekday I’m babysitting.
My dad was also pretty careless. I remember there was an ice-cream truck that would come around the block each week. I would run out the door and butt not-yet-calloused feet against spiky, brown, gumballs. He wouldn’t even watch out the window to make sure I would come back alright.
When it was time to go back home, the exchange went like this:
We would load up into his shiny black Lexus, and I would sometimes burn my knee on the muffler while I was loading my stuff. We occasionally brought my brother or picked up my dad’s friend. I usually sat in the back because of this. He wouldn’t usually strike a conversation with me. Except once, he told me he didn’t like country. So, decided to make gold my favorite color and Rihanna my favorite singer.
Instead he would talk to someone else, or he would talk on the phone. If all else failed, he turned up the old-school rap already playing from his radio.
Somehow, we would either run late or he forgot to feed me before we left. I threw up in his car. He was so mad at me. His car was his baby, and I had just violated her. Whoops, guess he should’ve fed me.
We made it to the airport eventually. I always struggled with getting my suitcase out. So, he would jerk it out, slamming it on to the ground before me. There would be a “Common,” and I would obey.
Imagine it. A small girl tugging her luggage a few feet behind her oblivious father. He never really did look back. He did manage to ask to lead me to the gate. That was only because I wasn’t old enough to find my way.
Then we would reach the gate, he would say goodbye, and I would board. Mid-flight the air-flight attendant would always notice my young age. She would ask me where my parent(s) was. I would say that I’m flying by myself. She would say that he’s not supposed to do that. I would shrug. She would respond with, “he must not have wanted to pay the fee.” Then for a moment I sat and thought about how much I wish he would have just payed the extra money so I wouldn’t have to go through this exact conversation every time.
Then there was the four years that he disappeared. I found out he had a girlfriend named Yolanda that he had replaced me with. My first thought was, “So, this is what being left for another woman is like.” I hate the name Yolanda now.
He was even colder than I remembered for a couple years after that. I was growing up. I began dreaming, planning my future. He shot that down.
Then I got accepted into an art school. He hurled insults at me until his birthday came, and I refused to talk to him. Three days later, my mom forced me to call him.
Now he tries more, but the relationship is still odd. He seems to try. Although, it’s the little things that I catch onto.
He’s still so distant. I’m still a few steps behind. I’m still tugging my luggage. This time though, I’m the one telling myself that he shouldn’t do that.
I can really relate to the struggle of father-daughter relationships, even though i’ve never really had a relationship with my father. I’m glad you can post so honestly! great post!