Fathers Bashny.Net

This story I wrote, but it is woven from the stories of my friends, girlfriends, forgotten relationship, and indeed something I peeped outside. So it's nothing personal. People with atrophied patronymic dedicated AE, P.E, PS, rm

You know, Dad is not easy. Do not just live, not just look at aging mother alone, how the boys in 10 years clog soccer balls in the gate and run to you. Well, that is, neither do you it, and the Pope. Because your praise and all twisted. It is at the level of innate reflexes, because we podsazheny on his father's praise, as the heaviest drug. And all this is not easy to Dad.

You can arbitrarily Now ask the question "Why?". But your photos hidden between linens, are unlikely to give an answer, even a couple of them. By the way this cabinet ironed starched linens are not only your photos, there still pictures and grandparents. Only they, for some reason are already dead, and you're still there.

You're out there somewhere, in a new city, the young, with a new woman. And maybe in a neighboring yard. I do not know, I do not know much about you. About your habits of your favorite books, about how you, when happy. Just when you're gone, it was too early to understand it, and now (sorry for the cliche) is too late.

Do you remember how you taught me to swim? You just threw me overboard our inflatable boat. I was nearly drowned, really. Tina swallowed, I even vomited, but I learned. Perhaps you've left, tail between his legs like a mangy dog, wanted me to learn. Learn to live.

You and he grew up without a father, and I "had the honor", so to speak, to continue this tradition. But it's not right. It's fucking wrong.

For 17 years, I have become older than a lifetime. If I have someone beat me to doebyvalis Gopnik, or taken mentovku - I did not know who to call. To tell.

I remember when I was "adopted" as I only used my call. I called Zhenya and said that he had called his mother and explained that today I spend the night with him. To my mother did not worry. Yes, Dad. It was.

Toward morning musarnyu showed up in your brother. Uncle Sergei. He weighed the opera quarter of its monthly salary, and I was released. He held out his hand, saying, "It's okay! Do not worry!". I almost puked. I was worth swear to give a slap, and send to the house on foot. But Uncle Sergei, not you, not my father. He's just your brother, who cleans up after you.

That Uncle Sergei each new year came in a suit of Santa Claus and gave us gifts. I did not believe him. In Santa Claus. You know, Dad is difficult to believe in the existence of the old New Year, if hardly believe in the existence of his own father.

I am now 22. I look in the mirror and see you. This way I still remember you. This how you're gone. I have your appearance. The same nose. Those eyes. Yes, I'm the same, exactly. Voice. Laugh.

Perhaps now is the point at which I must understand and forgive you, but it is not the pope. You still causes a storm of my imagination, and you are still the only person who can make me cry, but also your birthday I remember better than a number of its own phone.

It's not fair, Dad.

Remember how I was nearly drowned, well, when you taught me to swim. You then gave me his hand and pulled into the boat, saying, "Well, now you all know how to swim. Good job!". And for some reason I expect you unbearably SMS (we will deal only way) that will say "Well, son you all kind of learned how to live. Well done!".

December 22, 2010

© Alexandr CHoo

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