Ready

I’m ready to start writing about it: what it feels like to live within the shadow of

him.

Having never known him.

Having only heard stories, told by women trying to protect him.

Having been told I have his laugh, but never hearing it for myself.

Having seen pictures of him (very few) and searched for myself in his eyes, the ridge of his nose, the curl of his mouth, his golden skin.

Having spent nights crying in bed, with an ache so sharp in my chest, I wondered how I’d go on. Why I had to. Why he hadn’t.

Having listened to music I was told he’d loved. Wondering how Led Zeppelin and Tom Petty had sounded in his ears. Had he listened in the car? Did he sing along? Maybe he’d tap his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of Bonzo’s beat. What were his hands like? Maybe he’d air guitar Page’s sweeping solos.

Having only ever imagined.

Having never known for sure.

Having called out to him in moments of crisis, begging his spirit to come to my aid. Demanding of him, even as a vaporous energy, to at last “be my father.”

Having withstood the searching gaze on my features of those who had known him, as they desperately, hungrily scavenged for pieces of him.

Having feared the very worst: that I’d been the cause of the “accident.”

Having feared that’s what his mother and sister believed.

Having felt alienated from, and unworthy of his Memory.

Having been left unmentioned on his gravestone.

Having been abandoned.

Having been ashamed.

Having been heartbroken.

Having been alone.

Having been a baby.

Having been burdened with loss before I possessed anything.

Having lost my father, at six months old, to a self-inflicted gunshot.

•

It’s a hard story. I’ve spent my life trying never to have to tell it, for the sake of myself,

my mother, who held our world together even as it crumbled in her arms,

and my magnificent dad, Sam, who raised me as his own blood.

Still, it’s the only story I have.

I’m ready to start writing it.