An Open Letter To My Father

Dear Sir,
Remember me? I am your second son. Yes, it has been a long time, all my life, actually. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write, but who among us doesn’t have a Santa sack full of regrets, right? What I most regret is the forcible lack of choice in regards to you. I have been denied the option of making my own decision to like, dislike, love, despise, or dismiss you. I cannot say definitively that “My Dad is a jerk.” “My Dad is cool.” “My Dad’s a good fisherman, but he can’t hammer a nail in straight no matter what. It’s hilarious!” Or even, “My Dad passed away last year.” All these, & so many other statements are just empty prose, just shots in the dark. The dark of a hidden past, & an unused future.
Strangely enough, while growing up I do not recall anyone ever bragging about their father. I find this quite odd now, but in our era & area, we were not permitted the luxury of affection. When leaving Mum’s house to run a short errand, I kissed my wife goodbye as I always do. After I left, Mum called my wife into the dining room to admonish her - “We do not appreciate public displays of affection.” A peck on the cheek was too demonstrative, too risqué, too…loving. What would your thoughts have been, I wonder.
You surely recall the environment in our enclave of admonition: violence, drinking & drama, constant anger with occasional sprinkles of rage. Would it have surprised you to see our grandfather chasing us with a board w/a rusted nail in the end? Would you have been horrified when he stuck a red hot poker thru Grandma’s hand? Or when she poured hot oil over my head? Twice? I wonder, would you have defended or commended?
Did you know that Grandma blamed me for your disappearance? “He took one look at you,” she’d snarl, “& said, ‘I don’t want to raise no god-damned crippled kid’” So for 50 years it’s been on my head & my heart. Several years ago, Mum told my darling wife that you showed up drunk w/another woman, & she threw you out. What we have here is a failure to authenticate. Mum refuses to discuss you with me, or with my brother. Any rebuttal, or confirmation?
Your firstborn daughter passed away at 29. Your Marine brother sent us a card every Christmas, same line each time: “Dear Marge & the kids, still alive & kicking!” Did you get the same card? In those few words lay the entirety of our connection to our paternal heritage. We were told that you had a newer family with 5 or 6 children, our half-siblings. We assume you loved them instead of us.
Do you know that my brother & I have been looking for you for years? Searching databases, public records, placing ads, praying for some tenuous lead, all negative: as far as all our digging goes, you never existed. Why have we been so singularly unsuccessful? Two years ago, as I prayed anew for success in my quest, God told me, “But I am your Father.” At that point, my focus shifted to more of a passive pursuit. However, being human, the pain is still there. Being fatherless created a huge void in our lives, & empty space may well be the heaviest burden in the universe.
I do not fault you for your choices: I just want some of my own.