Family Ties

Briony.
An original written by Alexandra.

Dad and me (circa. 2001)

 I am not my age today. My wish to return to my
younger self, even for just a day, has come true.
Why wish for this, you ask? To identify what it is
that makes me crave the past, to continue to dwell
and live in it, despite the present and future propelling
me forward. The residue of my past drips with my every
step, leaving a trail of drenched footprints for me to
easily follow back. It is both a gift and a curse.

Today, I consider it a gift. It is time to put to rest
whatever taints my present. This is a unique chance to
firmly close this door. I start to follow the footsteps back.

I am a young girl again, and I awake in my childhood bed.
A pair of fairy wings are tied to my bedpost. All my
dolls are sprawled out on the floor on my pink and
yellow flower rug. There is a Lego sculpture in the
middle of construction. I must have been busy yesterday.

In this house, we live across the street from an idyllic park.
It contains the anatomy of a child’s haven – swings, slides,
hopscotch, trees to climb, secret passageways in the bushes,
a well-kept path to ride bicycles and scooters. It has been
so long since I was last here. I am ecstatic.
I run as fast as my little legs can take me – it is funny, as
I feel I am running much further and faster as a small girl
than I am able to as a grown woman who is double this
height. Perhaps I have not felt compelled to run to anything
with such vigour since I was this young.

One of my striking traits that I have always possessed is an
intense aversion to boys – and now, men. If I saw a group of
boys at the park, I would want to avoid them at all costs. I
would sometimes want to leave entirely. So, now, when I
lay eyes on this young boy at the park today, I am perplexed
by my curiosity to meet him. He sits alone, in the dirt,
playing with his toy cars. Typical, yet not disconcerting.
I approach him slowly without any thoughts other than
my keenness to meet him. He appears and feels so familiar.
He is both ambiguous yet transparently himself.
I stand over him, but he remains unfazed.
After a few moments, he looks back up at me with the most
comforting green eyes. I know these eyes.
“Finally!” he says, “let’s play!” He hands me two cars. One,
a baby blue 1960 Volkswagen Beetle, the other, a navy blue
1968 Ford Falcon. Strange, I think. I know these cars. How
could I? They are not from my generation and I do not
know cars. There are certain gestures this boy makes –
the way he rubs his eyes like an old man, the way his
shoulders shake up and down when he laughs –
that feel so intrinsic to me.
I do not know this boy, but I know this boy.

We continue to play together very harmoniously and with
great synchrony. We do not say much, nor do we need to.
We sit comfortably with the silence as a third participant.
But the nagging frustration of who this boy is remains.
It is not until he looks at me right in the eye, those
round green eyes, that the realisation of who he is dawns
upon me and strikes me senseless. I am absolutely paralysed.
This is my father, as a young boy. How easily we forget
that our parents were once young, once children. This
is their first time in this life as well.

Has my wish to travel in time been granted for a reason
greater than to bury my own individual qualms? I do
not consider myself a selfish person, but I have forgotten,
even perhaps, never realised, that my pain is my father’s. It
is my mother’s. It is my grandparents’. Whether
I inherited it from them or they assumed it
from me is undetermined, but the loss and confusion
is collective. It is ours.
When my father would offer his shoulder on which
for me to cry, my tears are felt just as much by him. I used
to think they were merely my own, but I am completely
wrong. He would remain silent as I weep, for I am
simply the latest vessel to carry and release the ache.
But it was once him, his father, his father and then his.

I have always worried, however, he never had the liberty to
be the vessel. Had he been afforded the chance to cry? To
process any trauma or fracture in a tangible way? Or did it
just turn him stoic and into a good actor? My father would
often tell me he was tired and exhausted at the end of the
day. I can understand why, for I see he carries far too
great a weight.

Following my epiphany, I look across to my father,
who continues to blissfully play with his toy cars, oblivious. 
It is so touching to see him in this light. This vision I see of
him before me now was completely unimaginable prior.
He could not be any more than the age of six, and it is
comforting to see that he once existed at a time where he
was not plagued by betrayal, tragedy, cynicism or
disappointment. My father, now, is a relatively happy
man who does not require much to be so, and the nuggets
of wisdom and moments of happiness he has given me
are my most valuable treasures. But I can see in him a
longing and a faint sadness. A homesickness as he yearns
to be a young boy again. So, I am reminded once more that
my pain is his. It is a union. My desire to revert to a child
to fix what needs to be fixed is shared with my father.

This door I was determined to close, is not a door, but an
entrance to an entire hallway. A hallway with stained and
discoloured wallpaper that once was considered ahead of
its time. A hallway littered with unidentifiable figures
hanging in cracked photograph frames.
Hanging with no prospects. The figures inside are long gone.
Their ghosts, however, linger patiently for a resolution.
I hope to be the one to provide it.

The corridors are dimly lit by window curtains open ajar,
and while the entire building feels dormant, the shy breeze
from the windows continues to propel minor movements
amongst the dust, the tarps, the scaffolding, the leaves.
As if a reminder to say, not everything is lost, not everything
is abandoned. No wonder I have not been able to shut this
door, the draft keeps opening it.

It is now home time. All the parents tie up their
conversations to stand up and rally their children in.
They start to trail off one by one.
“Where are you going to go?” I ask him, as I see
no one has come to claim him. He scrunches his
nose in thought – ah, I see my father has been doing
this forever. For the first time today, he looks
dazed and confused. I do not know how aware he is
of this situation “…you can come back with me,” I
continue. He smiles and nods eagerly. He gathers his cars
and we start to walk. We walk the route my father would
always take me down to teach me words, numbers and
objects. My favourite number became four as there
was a large, thick, bold, white ‘4’ plastered in front of
an apartment complex down the road. I became fond of
black cats as our neighbour’s pet would always lay on
the steps of our townhouse each evening. I point both of
these out to my father. He is engaged and amused by both.
How wonderful this is, I think to myself.
How absolutely wonderful.

We walk in the house, and just as expected, my father wipes
his shoes on the front doormat before taking them off and
following me inside. A very well-mannered boy who grew
to become an even more well-mannered man. A considerate
father. A reliable husband. Despite everything.

I have not been in this house for decades. It is the
most unsettling yet consoling feeling to return. Nothing
is different or disturbed, everything has remained.
It is my very own time capsule. It all appears smaller,
but I only recall it ever being monstrously big. I am now
seeing this through the jaded eyes of an adult. The kitchen
still smells of my mother’s cooking from the night before.
The dishwasher is running. The pots are on the stove,
drying. There are sheets and clothes hung outside,
gently swaying back and forth in the breeze. The beanbags
in the living room are sprawled out in an ordered
disharmony, with the imprint of a small child still
persisting in it. The remotes are paired together on the
coffee table, pointed at the television.

I realise my father is nowhere to be seen. I have much
to say and ask him, and time is running out. I hurriedly
walk to my bedroom, where I can see a small figure curled
up in my bed through the ajar door. I ever so gently open
it to talk to him, but immediately I can hear the endearingly
soft breaths as he sleeps. The pace of his breathing is
measured, unrushed, constant. Much like who he is
and the father he has become. He is buried in the
bed, fast asleep. No sound could disturb him from his
rest. I think he has been tired for years.
My questions have been answered.
I will leave him to sleep.

Young dad (circa. 1954)