“My Old Man”

I threw your ashes in a creek today, four months shy of the anniversary of your death. Then I had lunch at the diner by my apartment that you liked. Mom thought you'd want your ashes spread in the water. I agreed. But truly I don't think you'd give a fuck about where your ashes were spread. You seemed so eager to reach the finish line, I don't think you ever thought much about what would happen after you crossed it.

I've always had a complicated relationship with the idea of genetics. My blood fights me every day, reminding me of its inherent inadequacies and imperfections. Its presence feels like a large, drunken, disapproving parent ruining another family dinner by throwing their plate on the clean carpet they never vacuum. 

My heritage is one of drug abuse, physical abuse, and mental abuse. Maybe a little Polish. too. Our linage is shaped by broken bottles and clenched fists. Our familial tapestry woven with threads of discontentment and hopelessness. Our family history penned by tobacco stained fingers and a reluctance to continue writing. We come from generations of sons saying, "At least my old man isn't as bad as his old man," and I continue that tradition. You weren't as bad as your old man.

In the last nine months, I've haunted myself with your ghost. Although spared from being forced to confront any visible apparitions or required to ignore an intrusive sent of cheap tequila or stale cigars where none exist, I’ve found you in the smoke of every cigarette I’ve lit. I’ve heard you in the lonesome silence of my empty apartment. I’ve felt you in the rooms that have spun because of my intoxication.

The unused 23andMe ancestry test you gave me for Christmas, a month before you died, sits on a shelf in my kitchen. I'll never use it, but I'm sure I'll never throw it away, either. It was odd to me that you gave me the opportunity to learn more about our family history, having never said anything about it until that point. I wonder if as winter approaches, dying leaves think about the strong roots of the trees on which they hang. I wonder if that makes them feel better.

I'm not sure I'll ever want to be a father. I'm not sure you ever did. Your sister's response to your father's abuse was to never become a mother. Childlessness as rebellion, as protection, as survival. You didn’t teach me how to shave, ride a bike, or drive a car. You didn’t teach me how to smoke, get drunk, or push away people I love. You didn’t teach me to ignore the growing difference between the way I pictured my life being and the way my life has turned out. You didn’t teach me to act like I’m only passing through, even though I know there’s nowhere else to go. You did, however, teach me to keep an eye on the finish line, and to approach it purposefully and cautiously.

Maybe if you'd been a better father, I would've been a better son. Maybe it's the other way around.

You were better than your old man, and I’ll be better than mine.