Page 87 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
I firm my mouth and walk around so I can see his face.
His gray hair is mixed with light brown strands. He has a scruffy beard and weary, baggy eyes, darkened by sleepless nights. His coat is black, matched with dark jeans and black boots. A cigarette between his lips, smoke curling in the air.
Father.
I stare for a moment, unsure why he is here, and emotions swell inside me—unknown and painful.
“He’s my father.”
Ophelia’s brows gather and she looks from me to him a few times before finally grimacing. “Do you need a moment?”
I think about that. It wouldn’t be harder if she stayed, but the things I want to say to him… they need to be private. I don’t want her to hear what I need to let off my chest.
She sets her hand on my shoulder and presses a kiss to my cheek. “I’ll be up front watching the sunset.” I nod and watch her walk back up the path, disappearing behind the trees.
For a while, I just observe the tired soul before me. He doesn’t look like the man I remember. It’s been several years since I’ve seen him, after all.
They say time heals wounds. Of all kinds. But I don’t think that’s true. I think time only buries things into depths that are no longer so easily stared upon.
Although, I’m certainly not as angry as I once was.
“Hey, Dad,” I say softly, knowing he cannot hear me. That somehow gives me strength, knowing he can’t talk back and say hurtful things. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
I take a deep breath and sigh, staring at the memorial stone as he does.
After a few seconds of silence, I turn to look at him. Even after all this time, I struggle to face him. His face is one that will haunt me forever, I think. My mind cannot erase those hateful glares and spiteful frowns.
Finally, I force myself to meet his tired eyes.
And the ugly, old pain in my heart falters.
His hazel eyes are filled with tears and his hands are clasped tightly together. His jacket is pressed like he had a tailor sharpen it up just to visit me. Shoes polished. Watch secured around his wrist.
The knot in my throat swells and an unknown feeling consumes me. It’s not sadness or relief, but it isn’t anger or resentment either.
My tears fall before his do—he finally came to see me.
He remains silent and I wonder how long he’ll stay. My dad was never a man of many words. Why should he start now?
I decide I’ll tell him what I’ve been holding onto my entire life.
“You know, you were a terrible person. Not someone who has bad days or is going through a hard time. You genuinely were one of the bad ones. I didn’t deserve the things you did. The things you said.” I pause, looking away from his blank expression and back to the field of flowers. “Even though you hated me… I want you to know that I still loved you. Through all the vicious beatings and emotional abuse, I still sought your approval, your love. I only wish you could’ve seen that.”
He wipes his eyes and stands.Leaving already?
I bite back my emotions and say callously, “You couldn’t even fucking show up to bury me? Why have you come now? Why!” I shout and fall to my knees, pounding my fists against the earth. “And you don’t have anything to say to me?”
My father halts as if he’s heard a voice in the wind and turns his head back, looking at the memorial stone.
I freeze, finding myself waiting, holding my breath, wishing. Wishing he would say?—
“I know you have no use for these now—” He pulls out a drawing notebook from beneath his coat and a fresh set of acrylic paint, setting them down next to the stone. “—but I see now… how wrong I was. How cruel.” My father’s eyes narrow with anguish and his lip quivers.
My eyes widen as my fingers curl deeper into the earth.
He doesn’t say anything else. After several moments, he walks back up the path and leaves. I stare at the notebook and paint, tears falling from my chin.
Why did it take me dying for him to finally accept me as I was?
