It Takes Someone Special to be a Dad
Hazel eyes
All I ever saw were his eyes. Every single time I looked in the mirror, my reflection looked back and his hazel eyes stared at me. I hated the fact that I was constantly compared to him.
I was told we had the exact same eyes, the same nose and, apparently, the same passion and talent for art.
If he was in my life, rather than him walking away from me when I was about a month old, 16 years ago, I might have been proud of that fact. Except, I wasn’t.
Not because I hated him, I didn’t even know him so how could I hate him? That was the reason I hated people comparing me to him; I didn’t know him.
I’d rather have been able to see photos or, even better, seen him and compared us myself. No, instead I was stuck knowing only 4 things about my father:
His name is Gerard;
He gave me the middle name of Elena after his grandmother;
He was almost 15 when I was born;
He had hazel eyes.
Wow, I knew so much about him. I could write a book. Not.
I was desperate to know him as a person, rather than my father Gerard. I longed to know when he was born, where he was born, how he met my mom and why he walked away from me, when he was 15 years old, and I was just a month old.
Despite the fact I knew next to nothing about him; he left a part of him behind that pushed me forward in life and gave me a positive out-look. They were his eyes.
My eyes were definitely hazel, even a blind person could see that, but there were different kinds of hazel. My mom had hazel eyes, but hers were more of a green hazel, rather than the golden hazel I had been given. Not that I was complaining I adored my eyes and they seemed to have this little spark of my father’s personality pushing me forwards and always telling me to not look back on the past.
Half of me wished I could do that, while the other half wished I had looked back and stabbed my mom’s wounds open sooner. I craved to know more about my father and it had become a deadly obsession for me.
I was told we had the exact same eyes, the same nose and, apparently, the same passion and talent for art.
If he was in my life, rather than him walking away from me when I was about a month old, 16 years ago, I might have been proud of that fact. Except, I wasn’t.
Not because I hated him, I didn’t even know him so how could I hate him? That was the reason I hated people comparing me to him; I didn’t know him.
I’d rather have been able to see photos or, even better, seen him and compared us myself. No, instead I was stuck knowing only 4 things about my father:
His name is Gerard;
He gave me the middle name of Elena after his grandmother;
He was almost 15 when I was born;
He had hazel eyes.
Wow, I knew so much about him. I could write a book. Not.
I was desperate to know him as a person, rather than my father Gerard. I longed to know when he was born, where he was born, how he met my mom and why he walked away from me, when he was 15 years old, and I was just a month old.
Despite the fact I knew next to nothing about him; he left a part of him behind that pushed me forward in life and gave me a positive out-look. They were his eyes.
My eyes were definitely hazel, even a blind person could see that, but there were different kinds of hazel. My mom had hazel eyes, but hers were more of a green hazel, rather than the golden hazel I had been given. Not that I was complaining I adored my eyes and they seemed to have this little spark of my father’s personality pushing me forwards and always telling me to not look back on the past.
Half of me wished I could do that, while the other half wished I had looked back and stabbed my mom’s wounds open sooner. I craved to know more about my father and it had become a deadly obsession for me.