My Father

When I say my father, I am talking about the man that contributed half of my genes. I
call the man that raised me Dad. He is really my grandfather but he adopted me and my
brother when I was six. Dad worked hard to put a roof over my head and food in my
stomach. Dad drove me to school and the library. Dad is the man that loves me and
is always there for me. The word dad means love to me. The word father is more
formal and distant.  So the man that has always taken care of me is Dad. The man
that split and left me when I was two is Father. The man my mother married after he
left is my stepfather but there are a lot of less than pleasent names I have called him
over the years. But this is about my father.

I don't remember my father. He left when I was two, shortly after my mother brought
my younger brother home from the hospital. I don't know what happened between
my mother and father. I just know he left and my stepfather moved right in. Then
came two years of torture that I have mostly blocked out of my mind. But it has
left its mark on me. But that is a story for another time. I used to blame my father
for the pain I endured. But I have forgiven him for leaving. It was what he felt he
had to do I guess. You can't go back and change the past. I used to wish I could.
But then I wouldn't be the person I am today. Maybe I'd be better but I could also
be worse. I'll stick with the me I know. It taught me to never depend on another
person for my happiness. It also made me realize that there are questions I'll never
know the answers to. Bad things will happen to you. But you decide if those things
will break you or make you stronger. Blaming someone else for your unhappiness
and hating them just weakens you. It chains you to the past and gives them power
over you. That was a hard lesson to learn but only by forgiving him, and others that
hurt me, was I able to move on. When I forgave him, I grew stronger and I was able
to really start living my life.

I know next to nothing about him. I have never seen a picture of him. My family does
not like talking about him. Out of respect for my mom and dad, I try not to ask too
many questions. It was a bad time in my family history and I don't want to open
old wounds. Sometimes you let things go so you don't hurt the ones you love.

But I wonder about him. There is a whole side of my family I know nothing about.
I like to think I got my blue eyes from him. Most of my family have brown eyes.
The only other people with blue eyes are my dad and his dad. I'm also the picky
eater in the family. Most of the family like the same things, I however do not like
gravy, sausage, okra, squash, greens and a lot of other things that the rest of my
family can't live without. Maybe my picky palete comes from him. My sense of
humour is very different from the rest of the family. But my younger brother's
sense of humour is similar to mine, so maybe that came from him. I have so
many questions I would love to ask him but I will never get that chance.

My father died when I was a teenager. I had a lot of hate in my heart for him back
then. I was search for who I was and how I fit in. I carried the belief that I had
driven him away. I thought if I had been a better child then he would have stayed.
I was one messed up little person. The fact that my mom and dad survived me
during those years is a testiment to how strong they are. When I heard that my
father was dead I felt nothing at first. One of the people I blamed for most of
my pain and suffering was gone. Then it hit me that I would never know him.
I would never get to sit down and ask him all the questions I had. I felt robbed.
I felt abandoned all over again. Then I stared to cry. I cried for him and myself.
All the pain and heartache spilled over and I sat there while the tears streamed
down my face. I'd like to say that was when I forgave him, but it took me a few
more years to get to that point. Now I just wish I could have met him once.

I know where he is buried. I go by the cemetary a couple of times each month.
Part of me wants to stop and visit his grave but the other part is not ready for
that. Besides, he's not there. How can I ask a grave questions? Maybe one day
I will go and put a single rose at his tombstone. Just to say I forgive him and
to thank him for supplying his genes. I wouldn't be here without him. And he
did help make me who I am today, even if he was never there for me. But
in a way he was and still is. He is that elusive part of myself that I can't trace
back to any other person in my family. He is my father and a part of me.