The last
time she saw him was eighteen years ago. She was only eleven years old.
Memories of him, with him, were pleasant ones. Playful days at the park, trips
to the Zoo, watching Disney movies and having fun with her school projects, he
was alright in her eyes.
But that
was before the broken dreams, before hate kicked in, before the court
adjourned, before weekends were denied and before harmful snippets relating to
him went viral in her world.
She told me
stories about him, vicious stories. Those you never wish to hear associate to
anyone, certainly not someone you care for. But the stories were not her own,
not seen through her eyes. Would not hold up in the court of law.
Sunday
evening just as the sun cased its long shadow across the green slope on the
west side of the park. We stopped on the wooden bridge. It connected the foot
of the hill to the edge of the wooded section on the east side. We stopped to
take photos of the stream that carved its way towards what seemed to be a small
man-made lake, which overflows into another stream.
It was
cool, early spring, light jacket kind of evening. The signs of new beginnings
were plentiful. Budding leaves set the backdrop for a friendly variety of birds
showing off their singing skills. Blooms. Purple ones were most dominant on the
west side of the freshly melted stream. We were both distracted by the smell,
the gentle flow of the fresh water, the introduction of spring.
A man
wearing a light green t-shirt, grey jogging pants and glowing white running
shoes appeared out of nowhere, or so it seemed. He stopped beside us, paced
back and forth for a few seconds. Looked me over with a slight smile on his
face while reaching out his hand to shake mine. He seemed pleasant, calm, felt
as if I knew him.
I reached
out my hand in an attempted to greet him.
Chilling
objection abruptly changed the mood.
"Stop!
Don't talk to him."
Silence
lingered in the air before the unimaginable revelation.
"He's
my father."
Embarrassment
replaced his vague smile. He looked at her, calm. Slowly walked away with his
face pointing towards the unpaved walkway at the end of the wooden bridge.
The evening
got a bit colder as he mumbled only a few words.
"You
clearly have no idea."
.............................................
- Thomas ©
April 21, 2015
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