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Los Angeles, California
I am 47 and thriving in Southern California. One day at a time.
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Thursday, November 19, 2009

father figure

my father looms large in my life.

memories sting. consume. ache. throb. throb. throb.

he was mysterious; unknown. an enigma.

how i long for unwrinkled, silken times...painful recollections.

vomiting into a paper bag at a soccer game. asking me to identify money. a 10 or an 100? was he too drunk to tell?...my mother turning him away from our temporary home because he was too drunk to drive. beer bottles scattered throughout our car. some for drink. some to pee in...2 months in the hospital. loss of teeth and short term memory loss. a father with dentures and a pad in his pocket to help him remember. losing teeth at the dinner table as my mother giggled in embarassment...clenched. bent over the toilet in pain. an accidental drop of feces observed as i peaked through the door's open crack...the weekly visits to The Beer Store. never ending cases. endless. the musical roll of the the track. the leathery, medicinal smell. these were our field trips...the diamond/sapphire heart he threw my way because my mother didn't want it.

she didn't want it.

and then there was Scott Padmore.

once glance at my father and his big trap flapped, "what's wrong with your Dad?". Fuck You.

what was wrong, indeed.

31 years later; painful revelations. was he really being investigated by the RCMP for drug abuse? and did he really sneak out to his jaguar for covert sips of his golden nectar?

my heart ached all over again.

a diabetic, alcoholic, drug abuser.

am i my father's daughter?

i watched him prick for sugar levels, eat a candy bar when low and suck back the Molson Goldens.

and through a toothless mouth, he would smile and declare his love for us. a stumbling frame wrapped in a robe of alcohol, cologne and warmth, he would enfold his babies. bending over my bunk bed with a goodnight kiss dancing upon his lips, he hit his head. i softly whispered "i'm sorry", and the words i will never forget. "henriette, it was my fault. you are too sensitive for this world".

maybe i am. and maybe he was the only one who ever understood me.

a chronically ill, drug addict.

31 years later, i still miss him.

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