The Daughter of My Father

I’ve inherited more than my father’s eyes

Writing, besides being my passion, need, (suffered) pleasure, or addiction, is also my therapy.

It’s through writing that I deal with emotions, that the hard ones are expelled in raw and intimate texts, transforming pain into something bearable.

Writing about suffering is a hug in loneliness.

My father died on February 14th, 2014. One year later, I wrote this:

“You have your father’s eyes,” I’ve heard countless times. Yes, I have his eyes, their expressiveness, the shape and, maybe, the colourful and multifaceted vision he had towards the world.

From my father, besides his eyes, I’ve also inherited the passion for writing. Opposite from him, who wrote since he was young, I’ve only tuned to the calling much later in life, in my forties. Not too late but late.

From my teens, I have memories of the melodic sound that the typing machine flooded the living room; and my father, seated at his desk, absorbed in his stories, not even realizing there was life around him.

I loved to use his typing machine, but only as a resource, to train my typing skills, never with the intent of really writing. Back then, I had my (hidden) journal, where I wrote daily, sometimes more than once; to record my thoughts and feelings, stating what I’d done that day. I don’t remember ever trying to write fiction, it was always about me.

During our life together, I never read my father's texts, and he never sat down with me to share them. We never did things together.

My father used to remove himself from the world for hours in a row, it was just him and his typing machine; his stories were his priority. Just like I do it, now.

It seems that we have in common this passion, dedication and, even, blindness to everything that surrounds us when we write. I wish we had known that before…

Besides the eyes and the writing, what else have I inherited from my father? Ah! Our stressed distraction, the one that made my mother lose her mind and shout at us “You are so alike!”. She still says that, father.

Detached from reality, my father lived for his writing; as leisure and as work. He spent hours hidden behind heavy encyclopedias, books, and newspaper clippings. Now I understand his commitment and motivation.

My father died.

But he left me a seed, that has now bloomed. Would he be proud? Would he be able to say that he was proud of his daughter? Having the gift of words, one could expect it. But opposite from me, his writing skills didn’t extend to his oral ones. My father lived in silence, inside his articles, interviews, and stories; he lived in his alternative reality.

My father left.

His last days were violent and unworthy, however, antagonistically, it triggered care and proximity between us, nonexistent before.

Today, one year ago, my father and I were together for the last time. In me, he left his eyes and his love for writing. And I in him, what did I give him?…

Eyes transmit an immensity; they talk; shout!

My father's last gaze towards me told me much, like mine on his. The memory of this muted dialogue is my only comfort.

My eyes betrayed my lips, which spoke misguided words: “Hang on dad, be strong, fight with all your strength,” while my eyes asked, “Leave, dad, leave and go find your son. Take care of him.”

I still wonder if my father interpreted my eyes.

I recall our hands together, his eyes on mine, our complicity, and I feel that he did: my father knew he was living his last hours; that we were saying goodbye. As I knew it.

I have some regrets in life and this one, to have inverted the truth on my last encounter with my father, is one of them. In the departure truth was imperative! But I didn’t have the courage, I couldn’t say goodbye father out loud. Only through my eyes.

I carry on my chest the weight of my cowardice, for stopping myself from giving him a comforting death, to allow him to go. Instead, I pushed him to stay, asking him to hold on in a body unable to function, exhausted.

My father died.

Closing my eyes, I still see him, fragile, hostage of all those medical devices. To soothe my grief, I figure him aloof from reality, like he did all his life. I imagine him mentally writing a beautiful story, where he saw himself walking away from my mother and me, towards my brother, who was expecting him with open arms and his shy smile. In a slow-motion scene, my brother opened his arms and received my father, finally pain-free. In peace. They hugged and walked together, side by side.

My father and my brother are together again.

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