A Bittersweet Father

I haven't seen my father for years. It is something I accept yet resent to do so happily. 

Giving me so much opportunity to grow as a person, I understand it is something I should have gratitude for. He wasn't a good man. He subjected me to trauma everyday of my youth, and so left me in a state he's never considered to check on. Those soft deep-set brown eyes, always holding the same rough stare. Shoulders always decidedly still, and hands never clean but neither particularly dirty. They were soft, soft enough for the naivety of a small girl to fall into over and over again. Gruff was how I remember his voice. The only memories of it narrating fairy tails. Inordinate amounts of expression however, and a different voice carefully thought out for each character. 

It sounds on the surface that the nice memories overrule. 

But for me you must understand that pubs are social areas. For men and women alike to partake in casual and social intercourse, all laced with alcohol to maintain the forgoing of awkwardness. For my father, it was a solitary place, that he saw for shameful confinement. A focus of his energy onto sabotaging his happiness and his care for his own daughter. I never learnt the concept of time until I was at the finishing end of primary school, the nights I spent during summer alone until the early hours of the morning with an old portable DVD player and little food to keep me going. Anticipating the moment I'd hear deductively unstable footsteps clash through the door, and that sickening nostalgic smell of pub permeating throughout the house, in combination with my father's utterances of expletives. It was always a feeling of delight... more so relief. And fear. Coming into the living room wearing bloodshot eyes and face lightly glazed from tears, he would sit by me and release verbal and physical tension. More than often stemming from anger. 

Reminiscing on photos was a bittersweet activity indeed. I had never had it in me to feel anything stronger than numbness when I looked at them. But there was something that day that completely enchanted me with urge: to whole-heartedly study these pictures, and to feel something. Removing one out of it’s well-worn cover, I became bewitched with this wash of sentimentality. Or maybe it was nausea. I really couldn’t tell. My father was wearing a warm smile in this photograph. His neck cradled in his favourite tartan scarf, all tucked into the collar of the coat that was a gorgeous rogue matching his pinched cheeks. I noticed was snowing in it too. He’d been Peppered with soft white flakes, but his eyes were still bright with excitement. 

It wasn’t until I held this photo with both hands firmly that I noticed some particular dimension that not all print outs have. An extra piece of paper clumsily stuck onto the back. It was fair conjecture that what I saw quickened my heart pace. It was an address. That agreeable one-number two-word combination was scrawled on the back of this photograph. Unfamiliar as it seemed to me, only one thing became the forefront of my assumptions: this is where my father must be. 

With masculine force, I bashed the letters and numbers into the search bar of my laptop, and studied with sharp intent. 

6 Bishops Grove, Hampton. 

There… Round the corner. Fate was not needed to be tempted, rather fate was tempting me. I took no hesitation in ordering a taxi, and with the upmost anticipation, drew many deep breaths. With no disposable time to merely pack a bag, I went straight to the address. I couldn’t let this slip through my fingers. Not this time. 

The streets were dark, uninviting and fresh with cold air. The journey was lit by ample street lamps, and glows from the few pedestrian’s phone screens. I slid my hands under my thighs to retain warmth as even in the taxi it became arctic. I knew this moment carried potential to be the biggest thing of my life, and I dined on the visions of meeting my father for the first time in so long. Heart-felt and emotional, conversational and light, brooding and short tempered.. I had little regard for emotion at this point, I was simply desperate to see him again. The driver of this taxi had refrained from discourse for the duration of the ride, until he announced of our arrival. He turned back and smiled at me, almost with some sort of condolence. I then understood why. 

I was at the local hospital. Its eight letters proudly displayed on a sign, along with its all inclusive visiting hours. 

Whilst I had been prolonging my practice of deep breaths for the most part, it became harder to maintain as I entered the reception doors. I walked to the front desk sheepishly and inquired for my father’s name. 

“Mr Peterson?” I teased the words out, as my voice was becoming shaky. 

“Room 4. Feel free to head in.” the receptionist said rather emotionless. 

I conducted myself with a blank face and neither a confident nor shy walk. I entered. 

There he was. Laid peacefully like a fallen soldier. His mouth still curled at the edges, and his eyes, though closed, still communicated that excitement. His hair was thinned and lifeless, it broke my hear to see. The monotony of the heart rate machine began, and hums from various machines penetrated my senses. He had two tubes coming out each arm, and some kind of breathing aid. 

Seeing him like this made me light headed. 

I fainted. 

The heat rate machine still sang. The machine hums still played. I woke. I was still laid in the hospital bed. A nurse entered the room. 

“She’s awake. The doctor, Mr Peterson, will see you now.” 

A man entered. Tall. Slender. 

“How are you feeling? You’ve been in quite the coma.” 

“I saw my father”

“My dear, your father passed over ten years ago.”