In Loving Memory of My Father

I looked through the window and saw the island in the distance. Though I couldn’t see where it ended, the turquoise Caribbean Sea surrounded the tip. As the plane descended, I discerned the swath of green land come into focus. Expanses of emerald canopies untouched by the hands of industrialization stretched out as far as the eye could see. Winding roads cut through the terrain, a single car driving alongside a horse-drawn contraption. Ramshackle houses appeared into view, brightly colored like pastel Easter eggs. Mountains sloped along the face of the earth like wrinkles.

“In a couple of minutes, we will soon be arriving at our destination”, the flight attendant spoke curtly, reminding me of my impending reunion with a shadowy figure of my distant past.

My heart leapt to my throat as I clutched onto the armrests. All these years, I had hoped to see him one day again, to recover the years that were lost in the smoke. But the summer he had left decayed into autumn, and autumn froze into winter, and winter melted into spring. The sun set below the horizon and rose once again. Every day, I hoped to see him again. Hope was the northern star that guided my shattered heart towards the possibility of him coming back. Or, of perhaps hearing his voice again. But as the seasons changed, his memory faded around the edges, worn by the passage of time. His face became a blur, and his voice I could no longer recall.

Yet his absence in my life was still tangible. I would envy all the other children whose fathers would pick them up from school and carry them in their arms, telling them how much they loved them. I would wonder, why me? Why did my father leave me? Why did everyone else have one? Why is it me? Desperate for an answer, I would call out to the void, but my response was just my question echoed back to me.

Every Father’s Day would remind me of what a failure mine was. As I grew older, my hopeful heart was gradually eroded by the waves of resentment crashing upon its shore. Eventually, I stopped referring to him as my father and nicknamed him my “sperm-donor”. What had he contributed to my life? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He had intentionally run away from his daughters and cut off all contact with us, simply because he couldn’t handle the reality that my mother had severed their marital ties. He was our lighthouse, but his sudden departure left us stranded, lost in the beguiling sea. Even if he did somehow illuminate the dark depths of the ocean once again, the damage he had inflicted was unforgivable.

Could I ever really forgive him, I thought, as I peered through the window, the countryside coming closer and closer. The last time I had seen him was tainted with fear and tears. He was shouting at my mother, his face distorted with unhinged fury. I was far too young to understand what he was saying, but I could tell his words were like stabs to my mother’s heart. His eyes were fiery slits, and his mouth rapidly fired bullets. I stared, utterly helpless as tears streamed down my cheeks. I couldn’t believe that my very own father – the father that tucked me to sleep, who would carry me on his shoulders so that I could feel like I was at the top of the world – was capable of morphing into such a hideous monster, seething with bloodshot eyes. I could barely even recognize him as the father I once loved.

The next day, my mother cradled me in her arms as she gingerly wiped the tears from my cheeks. My father had left for Cuba, leaving behind in his wake memories that could never be erased.

Leafing through dusty photo albums, I would wonder what had become of him. Did he marry someone? Did he have his own children? What did he do for a living? Did he ever think about the family he abandoned? Did he ever regret his decision? With a sigh, I would close the album, my unending questions left suspended in the air, unanswered.

That is, until I opened my mailbox unsuspectingly years later. My heart stopped. With trembling hands, I carefully opened the envelope in anticipation.

Dear Dalilah and Anadalay,

I know it has been many, many years since I’ve seen you. I write this knowing you might not forgive me, but I am sorry for having missed out on your childhood. I cannot take back the time I let pass me by in my bitterness, but I would like to be part of your future.

Tears perilously lined my eyes.

~

“Welcome to Havana, we hope that you enjoyed your flight.”

Beads of sweat perspired on my forehead as I carried my luggage with trembling hands. My heart reverberated in my chest like a caged bird as I looked for a once familiar face amongst the crowd.

“Dalilah and Anadalay!”

I turned around. My father was different. His hairline had receded, and wrinkles lined the corners of his emerald eyes. His eyes were no longer burning with hatred; instead, they were warm, like that of a candle softly glowing in the darkness.

I forgave him; not because I condoned the actions of his past, but because he was human, and humans made mistakes. My father’s mistake was written in permanent ink. But there were empty pages in our story that were waiting to be filled, and the pen was in my hands.