Shapes of the past

I never really knew my father while growing up. By today's standards, he would be called an absentee dad. He was an unattainable mystery to me all those years ago, someone whom my grandparents, my mother and other relatives never talked about. If they did, I rarely heard it. I'd occasionally catch some whispering in low, soft voices that would end abruptly when they saw me. Sometimes I'd see my mother's round face full of sadness, her shoulders slumped and heavy as though life had cheated her out of her last dollar.
Even though I was too young to know what was going on at the time, I sensed that he must have done something wrong for everyone to be so mad at him. Nor did I question why I was being brought up at my grandparent's home. It was just that way as long as I could remember,

The few times he would drop in for a short visit, I would feel both anxious and angry.
Anxious that I wouldn't be recognized, angry that he didn't want to spend time with me, and angrier that he made my mother unhappy. She would hide in another room of the house, trying to eavesdrop on conversations and refusing to come out until he left.

I remember having to be coaxed into saying hello to him, and that he would pat me on the head awkwardly & give me some money before disappearing again. I both hated and treasured those moments. All I could think of as a child was that he had a nice smile and that I desperately wanted him to like me. My father, however, never stayed long enough for me to memorize his face.

Over twenty years later, I uncovered the source of the family discord and unhappiness. My parents had once been happy and in love. They were young and full of hope. This is where the explanation is a little muddier but best as I can tell, he left to find work in another city. My mother stayed behind to take care of me and my younger brother while we lived at his parent's house. Then the unforgivable happened. He met another woman and the separation became permanent. It was a seemingly careless, lousy thing to do and it left us hurt and wounded. 

My father died in the late 70's during a hunting trip into the jungle. Details were few and sketchy. He was not quite forty. By then, I was so far removed from my childhood past, I took the news as though this was some distant relative. Someone whom I barely remembered, someone who had given me up years ago and that I had no connection to. I thought I didn't care.

Now I know better. I did care. I needed that strong father in my life. I wanted to be recognized and accepted. It took a long time to understand why I was intrigued by the emotionally unavailable types. It was easier, a false comfort. Self awareness is a real eye opener.

I will end with this quote by Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird.

“You can choose your friends but you sho' can't choose your family, an' they're still kin to you no matter whether you acknowledge 'em or not, and it makes you look right silly when you don't.”