“Come back here!”

As a child, my father was my world. He would play a silly game that he dubbed, “come back here!” I would pretend to run away while he would grab me back saying, “come back here” in his funniest voice. His deep lulling voice changed into silly characters and operatic parodies, shooting my imagination past the stars. Nightly stories that spread over every kingdom and flourished from the tiniest insect to the tallest mountains, poured from that voice. A voice that clamoured off the walls. A voice who told my mother she was never good enough. A voice who said "I don't know when I'll be back." And didn't return.

Yet, I still sat by the window and waited.

The roll of a father has never changed. From the generation before to the next, what is done in the name of a father will be carried on.

My paternal grandfather was a hard, harsh man who kept his mind only on the eradication of communism and the rights to an insatiable lust after he spent his long days at the base. But no one talks about such things. As a member of the Airforce, a good southern-Baptist Christian, and even a devout Mason, he stood proudly for every action he took, no matter how moral.

My father was born the youngest with just an elder sister. Not much was ever revealed to me about his childhood. You didn’t talk about such things. His family moved with the tides of the Airforce, every couple of years or so. His father was clearly verbally abusive, as he still was when I knew him. But the man was intelligent, and to the world, he was just another hardened veteran. Such a shining example teaching my father to be a man.

He married my mother trying to find solace in such a grounding, good Christian woman. Something of his southern Baptist upbringing. When I was born, he seemed to find his stride. Working together with my mother as they struggled through finding steady jobs and learning how to be parents. Both of my parents sang, drew, and told stories, but my mother less and less. It was not until much later did I realize that my father never paid her a compliment or words of encouragement. A critic like his father. Criticism morphed into ego fueled diminishing words as the years went on. We moved several times. My mother was an embarrassing mess according to him and blamed her for following in the insatiable lustful pattern his father did. And so I believed that all men must be this way.

My autistic mother was born the only child, from a simple town. In college, she unknowingly caught the attention of my tall, cultured father. She never knew life outside of her humble upbringing, and became so enamored with such a new perspective. She never thought to question it either. My father showed her how ignorant she was of the world. Just how much she didn't know. She held a double masters degree and believed she wasn't worthy to hang it on the wall. It was she who would coach me for volleyball, teach me to fix the toilet, show me how a carburetor was a car's heart, stand up and cheer the loudest at any performance of mine. She brought the hidden strength my father never gave.

“Why won’t you ever come back here?” My father would ask me. I could only decline legal visitation so many times. Taking rides from friends or public transit just so I wouldn’t have to stay. One can only stand being taken to the mall to “meet his friend” so many times. Or promised that “she won’t be here next weekend.” “Sorry, I forgot you were in the talent show.” “I only met with her once.” “Is your mother still spreading stories about me?”

I’m now well into adulthood. Married for the second time with three kids. 1000 miles away from my father. Still he askes every few months when I will be moving back. He follows with pictures of his latest “friend.” He has never met his youngest two grandchildren and never asks.

When Father’s Day arrives every year, I try with an open mind to hear from those who have lost their father, or have listed wonderful reasons to be thankful for the male figure in their life.

Forgiveness is life long for life long wounds.

I will always come back to my figure of leadership and authority. The one who never let me go. My mother.