Antonio

I tell anyone that will listen so many things about you.

I tell them how you loved to dance, that my first memories are of you in the kitchen doing the twist, and carrying me to the tunes of Fats Domino and Ramon Ayala. You still tap those feet despite using a cane and the walker. 

I whistle for the babe, the same way you whistled at my mom. 

I repeat the story of you and my Padrino, that night before his son's wedding in Mexico. I tell them of how drunk you both were, the rose that you bought, or maybe it was my Padrino, and the Mariachi serenade you sang to each other. I laugh at how you both were too hungover to have any drinks at the wedding. 

 I talk about the way I am more your daughter, that I took after you, despite you not being my biological father. 

I describe the days at the ranch, the animals that we had, the gun that you taught me to shoot.

I boast of the bowling trophies, and how you made me a mini bowling practice set in the backyard so that I could be just you. I still remember the little ruby red ball with my initials that matched your big red bowling ball.

I describe the morning breakfasts at the bowling lane diner, how we would take our own cloth napkins, leaving them stained with ketchup. Remember how we giggled when we gave them to mom to wash, how irritated she would be with us. 

I laugh at the days you were trying to teach me how to drive, and remind myself of the day you taught me to ride that purple bike. 

I tell them how lucky I am that I got to call you dad, that I got you as my father in the best time of your life. 

I remind them all, the friends, the readers, the followers on twitter, that you survived that Christmas day. That you will remain my dad for many years to come, that you are a bull, a giant of a man. 

I tell them you are my dad. 

Paternity Test Redux

I have a father, his name is Antonio. He is in his seventies, slow to walk, and seldom drinks. I have a father, he is actually my grandfather. But this post is not for that great father. This post is for the other man, the man who calls himself a father because his pants come off and biology takes over. This is for you.

PATERNITY TEST

“You’re beautiful,” was the phrase in his electronic reply,
A revelation shaped from my centimeter sized profile picture.
My computer screen blinded by a morning August sun,
Twenty plus years of search on a social network forum.

Tears flooded my spectacles as I reread the line,
“please call, I want to know you.”

I questioned the moment,
a child searching for a biological connection,
was he only a click away?

The resemblance of my half oddly shaped nose and slight almond eyes
met the gaze of his out dated photos,
glorified snapshots of a boxing profession that never took off.

My heritage semi legitimized.

The fingers fumbled,
misdialing until I managed the correct sequence.
An awkward, “hey, how are you?” as we painfully attempted small talk.

The revelation of siblings, aunts,
and a grandmother mere minutes away,
was more than I could handle for a casual Saturday afternoon.
As conversation progressed, so too did anxiety.
A feeling of “oh shit, what did I do?” as he continued to speak.

Quick to blame a single teenage mother,
Along with a whole network of maternal kin.
He digs in to the village of family that nurtured my existence.
It would not be a “Maury” segment,
but neither would it be a sentimental “Oprah” moment.

His speech was slurred as he forgets to ask me questions.
He carried on his conversation much like he carried on his parenting,
As if I wasn’t there.
A continual dialogue of finger pointing ensues,
He says, “You need to know why I stayed away”,
Attempting to tell me who he is.

A boxer, a diabetic…an asshole