I only see my father in my dreams.
When sleep finally claims me, I am back in the home where we lived – where we tried to live. There is always the house. Always the cold pale blue of his eyes.
In both dreams and my memories of youth, I can’t speak. He has stolen my voice and it will take me a lifetime to find it again. With all of me, I hate him for making me so weak. Soon, I will come to hate myself for my weakness.
Out of spite, out of instinct, I grow. Contorted, but uncompromising. I vow to myself I will never be weak again. I lie to myself until it becomes the truth. I sell my soul for strength, for my spirit only sees salvation in the arms of vengeance and I pay the cost with my body gladly. Years pass, I have kept my promise. But the years were long, and he is an old man now who doesn’t know me for his son–and how could I blame him? I do not even recognize myself. Time stole my revenge, but it stole even more from him. The dreams become nightmares more vivid than any day. I throw my father into the walls of that house until they both break. Too blinded by the redness of righteous rage to see; now I am him, and he is me. An acolyte, building a temple brick by brick with every vengeful dream to honor the very heat of hate I’d come to love. I will be a man before I tear it all down so my children never walk through its doors. Going gray as I kill the god I’d come to worship.
I only see my father in my dreams. Now, he is the one who is mute. The ice in his cold eyes melt into a wrinkled face whose age makes me curse how much time we wasted. I ask him questions, so many questions that have broken my back through the years to carry alone. I implore him, help me lift this burden. How did you carry this? Where do I put this all down? I beg, and I beg, and he does not answer. He has already given me everything he has; there is nothing left.
In my heart, I buried my father long ago. Can someone, anyone, tell me, how do you mourn someone who is still alive? Whatever man now wears his face, I do not know him, and he does not know me. All that is known is it never had to be like this – but it will always be like this. That lesson has been lashed across my back a thousand times over, and a thousand and one times I forgave the lion tamer that held the whip. The one who had the power to make me forget I am a king of beasts. But father, look, I have found my claws and remembered my teeth. Aren’t you proud of me? Let God never say I did not honor you for never taking the same arm raised against me. You may have stolen my pride, and in your eyes you were always in the right–but tell me now, who is left? Who mourns the man you were with me?
Within the cemetery in my chest I lay my wreath of grief at a grave that bears my surname. It blossoms with petals of pity and, in spite of my greatest efforts, an undying note of longing in a song I’ll never stop singing. My heart was not meant to compose only laments, and I am learning to finally write a refrain to honor this life you gave me; though you will not be in it. It never needed to be like this, but you will always be like this. Though my love could not change you, that is no fault of my love. I leave you where you always wanted to be left, alone.
The dreams sometimes still visit me, drifting in on quiet nights when my heart has no vacancy. There is always the house. Always the cold pale blue of my father’s eyes.
Most nights I just fight the sleep.
Ian M. Galloway ©