I am fairly certain that I know what happened with my father. I never met my paternal great grandfather, but I can say that those whom I have met in my family have shed some light on a few mysteries.

When my dad died, my grandparents couldn’t bear to part with the reminders of their youngest son’s early departure. Let alone that their grandson would never know the man. The family bore some emotional weight from that, and shifted some weight still. I can’t say that it caused my grandparents to die any earlier than they would have otherwise, but I can definitely say that their house felt incredibly hollow and quiet for their remaining years.

So many would ask, “Why?” What could possibly have turned events down this path? Was it inevitable or happenstance? My father’s absense would speak so many volumes compared to his waking moments. I remember finding his drawings and effects early in life. I was young enough to not realize the value these seemingly meaningless items would hold in these humble people’s hearts. I couldn’t have known. I was too young to process it in any way. Though I would find those effects; some sketchpads and pens, pencils, notebooks, random items that to this day I can’t recall the entire inventory. I do remember nothing being remarkable about any of it, but his drawings were pretty prolific. He fancied himself some sort of artist. A medium length haired barefoot and shirtless hippie with dark hair and a sad dirt mustache to tie everything together. The gap between his teeth may exist, it may not. His voice was lost to the void long ago. I will never remmber any of his poems, his drawings, but I will always remember how they made me feel. They were clearly products of a severely depressed person. The drawings were a smattering of psychedlic nonsense with violence and interspersed with sad poems.

He fancied himself a soul needing to express strong feelings.

I would hear stories from other family members. I would hear about screaming and tears and distress. I would hear about alcoholism and escapism. Poeple only tell the truth when they can’t think of a good lie. I can’t tell how often those drawings would help me get the truth out of all of these stories. I heard about angry exchanges of me as a child of two homes.

From what I could gather, my dad was the first in the family to graduate high school. He never aspired for much beyond that, I guess. He worked midnight shift for a short while at the local “tube mill”, where nearly everyone was employed. I heard he didn’t last long at that job, and after he had no job and his parents were kind of sick of his shit, he moved in with his girlfriend. She was a wonderful lady. I quite liked her. She was funny as shit, an old hippie lady with long brown hair and beige aviators on all the time. She was always laughing. Her name was Rhonda, and she was never my mom, but I would still remember her. I would still prefer her warmth or at least what I remember as warmth over the coldness I was used to from my mom. My memory isn’t what it used to be. I would hear about my dad not finding her very attractive. Saying things like “The ugly ones won’t fuck you over” as though to throw a jab at both my mom and his girlfriend at the time. Just so shallow.

He had every right to be depressed as he was, he was a mess of a human being. And so he would peak in life at the ripe old age of 32, flying through the windshield of his grand am soaked in bourbon and tears. I have mixed feelings about this. I know that no one is all bad and no one is all good, but people are just somewhere in between. Maybe some lean more toward good than bad, and should they exist their equal opposite ought as well. I do suspect he was a brat, depressed, and selfish. The baby of his family, never having much expectation placed upon him, with all the love and support of elders and no repercussions in sight- a veritable incubator of narcissism. I just have pieces, I’ve only ever had pieces. I don’t own any of them directly, but I do own at least one.

I remember being very little. Scrawny and small. Bright red cheeks and weighing barely anything at all. I sat on his shoulders outside for hours. I don’t remember what we were doing outside that day, but it was a long while before we came inside. Men don’t wear sunblock, I guess he thought. I couldn’t have been older than four. The sunburn was intense, I had boils for weeks. It hurt to exist for the longest time. Thanks, dad. This is what I have left of you that is truly mine.