My Father's Gift In my little home town of Barthsworth people built relationships to last a lifetime. At least this is what my mother told me repeatedly while frowning at me. She couldn’t understand the politics at school that usually resulted in my being friendless for periods of time. She also said I must of gotten this unsociable side from my father who was no longer with us. Not that he died, you understand, he just wasn’t with us. This mysterious man was constantly a part of our conversations, so while I did not know him physically, I felt I knew him very well. I also suppose that any normal person would have developed a dislike for this cad my mother spoke about in unfavorable terms. To sum him up from my mothers point of view would mean that he was a selfish, hurtful cur that preferred his own company and spent hours upon hours writing in that ridiculous little notebook of his. He compiled poetry, short stories, even a full novel or two. None of it would ever be published she assured me. The man just wasted his life scribbling nonsense on paper. I suppose this information only served to glorify him in my eyes as I imagined myself to be very similar to him. My mother could not understand me and was frustrated to no end with having me always underfoot instead of playing outside like any other healthy child. I had no wish to play the games my schoolmates engaged in. They didn’t stimulate me in the way that playing with words upon a fresh sheet of lined paper did. My thesaurus was my favorite book and it served to expand my vocabulary to the point that often times I earned the ire of my mother because she couldn’t understand half of what I said to her. She said I made her feel stupid and felt as well that I did it on purpose. I honestly did not do it purposefully. Up in my room I wrote letters to the mystery man that was my sire when I wasn’t composing my next whimsical verse of poetry. He would be tall, and dashing with a large genuine smile. I’d never seen a photograph of him, for Mother had burned them all when he left us. I invented him and filled out his character with each piece of information I gleaned from her tirades. In my letters I often asked if he would return so he would see what type of person I was becoming and how proud he would be if only he would read just one of my poems. I envisioned his long arms enfolding me in a tender embrace and the soft peck of a kiss he would place upon my brow once he got there. Though I’ve never met him, I felt my father was my inspiration. Mother and I continued our daily battles, which only served to further widen the gap that grew between us. She only inspired resentment in me by slandering him. I could understand by the age of ten why he had left her. She would drive anyone insane with her uneducated blather. I kept all those letters I wrote to him in a box labeled with his name. I was determined that once I was old enough, once I had written a best seller and had the money, I would find him and give him the box. This would make him proud and make him want to take me away from this small-minded town of ours. I was sure of it. As I aged I put the shoebox away, storing it up on the top shelf in my closet. Occasionally I would take it down and sift through the letters and smile softly in remembrance. I’ve written my best seller, though I never got the chance to tell my father about it. I read the other day in the obituaries that he’d passed away. I felt crushed upon first knowing my childhood dreams were absolutely over. It took some time for me to find the bright side of the situation, but now I see that I can talk to him any time I want as I envision him in heaven looking down upon me with pride. The pride my mother could never understand. The pride of being able to assemble thoughts into words and live life in a way few ever experience. Everyday is a new adventure. Some day I’ll thank him for entering into our lives for such a short time and unknowingly bestowing the gift of the love for language upon me. Someday, but I’m not quite ready to meet him yet. There are still untold stories waiting to be written.