Transparent

Impressionist bubble. Sand-blown glass and he is trapped inside. A ceramic figurine, who used to lift her up and carry her home. Whose deft fingers traced the words of a book, voicing the characters as if the stories lived within him. She cried when she had to leave, balled her fists and raised her hands as if to protect herself from growing up. Sometimes, she would reach out, desperate to place her hands on the glass. Peer out of the transparent globe. He always pulled her back. Baked her cupcakes, with motorbikes made from icing. Spoke the right words, the comforting ones. The ones a daughter wanted to hear from her father. Daddy’s here. Daddy’s here. He wasn’t always. Still, over the years, she forgot about the edge of the bubble, the fragility of the glass around her hero. She let him take her to parties where she mumbled through the tears. When he hugged at the end, it all seemed worth it. Every school play he missed, every parents’ evening he was late for. It was only until he solely acknowledged her with a nod that the glass started to crack. When she realised he downed a bottle of whisky on a Friday night. Alcoholic. Drunk. A loving Father. The pieces of the puzzle just didn’t quite fit.

Bags packed. Sleepover at the weekends. A night curled up in front of the television, watching cartoons while she tries to ignore the way he checks his watch. Almost every minute. When she goes to bed, in that small room furthest from his, she hears the whisper of his vaping. Cancer-carrier. Thrill-seeker. Loving Father. The puzzle was unfinished. He cancels on her, one night. Going out with friends to the pub. She crawls on her hands and knees to the edge of the snow-globe, places her hands against the glass. He texts, apologises, tells her he loves her, and he’ll always be here. She retracts her palms and runs back to him. The glass wobbles, but it does not break. He takes her to a fairground at the beach, checking his phone. Notification. Misinformation. She tugs his arm, begs him to join her on the boats. Walk with her along the pier. Buy her an ice-cream. He holds up his hand, trying to formulate an emoji reply. A friend to others. A loving father. Father. That may be. Loving? Suddenly, she isn’t so sure.

He remarries when she’s eleven years-old. A beautiful woman with wide hips and a curved nose. Like a Princess from a fairy-tale. She was unsure if that made her father the Prince or the ogre. He did not invite her to the wedding. Husband. Lover. A loving father. Not just a father, she begins to see. Father is too far-down on his list of priorities. His title, like King or Queen, merits no blue blood or kindly words. Her eyes are opened, slowly pried. With the cold kiss of scalpel, her eye-lids are parted. Pulled back so she can see the full picture. She stares at the edge of the bubble, transparent yet obscure. She tumbles toward it, the images of him, all that he is, flying around in her mind. Drunk. Smoker. Party animal. Good friend. Husband. Lover. Purveyor of adrenaline sports. His paternal smile begins to shrink and crumple. Hold the UV light over his face; she can see the writing on the wall. He is the only puzzle she finishes without having all the pieces. Gathering snapshots of him into her palm, she evaluates. Realisation dawns too late. Arrested once. A felon. Played in a band. Musician. Almost an Olympian. Ambitious. Punched a doctor. Never wanted children. Transparent. Parent. He was a façade. And now he is a memory entombed in shattered glass.