A letter to Dad on Father’s Day

Father’s Day 2012
Dear Dad,

I often wonder who you are. What is your name? Are you even still alive? The immutable power of these eternally unanswerable questions gradually consumes my soul. I will never know if I have ever unknowingly passed you in the street, or exchanged a sideways glance with your uncannily familiar brown eyes. In my mind’s stagnant whirlpool you are my flawless ideal of a father, yet in the clarity of reality you are no more than a perfect stranger. Simply the pleasure of knowing you exist somewhere in this universe does not bandage the wound of your absence.

I often wonder who I am. My family tree is severed in two- I am denied your half, its branches rich and strong with stories I will never be told. I wander aimlessly, never truly knowing the roots of my heritage, my nationality ambiguous and fluid. ‘Caucasian’, the sheet stated. This is a broad term that does not define anything.

My half sister is beautiful, inquisitive and innocent. How many half siblings am I linked to through you, biologically as strongly related to me as my sis? That I may have unknowingly met a sibling, or never met one at all, is a plague on my existence. Ever satisfying my curiosity, with the potential existence of these mysterious beings, is beyond my feeble human capabilities.

Dad, what happened all those years ago, on the tumultuous day that decided my existence? What motivated you to make the decision- was it altruistic, or was it simply an efficient and immediate way to fill your wallet? What did you spend your return on- an apologetic necklace for your ex-girlfriend, textbooks for university, or simply a granola bar at the corner store? Was it worth it?

They say you can’t miss something that you’ve never had. But somehow, I miss your fatherly figure, your broad shoulders and strong hands. I miss your warm smile and your deep brown eyes. I miss the way you tousle my hair as you pass me in the hall, the omnipotent power of our father-daughter communicated in your touch. I miss handing you your coffee, black with one sugar. It is my guilty pleasure, indulging in my illusion of perfect functionality.

I no longer count the meaningless Father’s Days I have endured, trying to avoid the inevitable questions. There was never anyone to pretend to be my father, so the situation was blindingly obvious. ‘Where is your father?’ their judgmental eyes say, accusing. I have grown weary of denial and lies.

Having built your life without me, have you dismissed the donation as just something in your past that you did to make ends meet? Does your wife know? Do your children? I would love to think that I am a missing piece of you as much as you are a missing piece of me, but I am under no illusions. As sketchy as my knowledge is, with all I know of your existence bullet pointed on a sheet of paper, you know even less of me. So much that you could easily forget. I understand how the past can be brushed under the rug.

Nevertheless- do you ever think of me? Do I cross your mind in a flitting thought, spinning and weaving the magic of what could have been? Do you wonder when my birthday is? What achievements I’ve made? What gown I wore to my formal? Whether I like watermelon pink or cerulean blue, Liberal or Labour, Mac or Windows? Would you be proud of who I have become? Dad, I have needed you, more than you ever know. My need for you is an insatiable hunger that will only escalate as I journey through the milestones of life. Who will walk me down the aisle? Who will be the grandfather to caress my first-born child? The uncertainty is deadly.

I just want you to know, that whoever you are, wherever you are, and whatever you are doing, you are my father. The privilege of knowing who you are, of knowing who my family is, would place the missing piece that completes my existence. For now, though, and perhaps forever, I just wish.