Fathers’ Day. Feast. Fringe.
Sometimes I wonder how much attitude have I inherited from my father. His sense of honor? Humor? Sentimentality? Predilection for anything with alcohol?
Sometimes I wonder how much I am his version — perhaps I’m just a facet of his soul. Am I an echo of his habits?
Sometimes I wonder how much wine is stored in his room. Near his bed is a white box which contains his vino collection. At times I would peek and try to see if I could borrow a bottle and pay it later. Will he ever notice the legerdemain?
He’s sleepy now, but I could feel his persistence. He just wants to watch tonight’s action flick, Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol. His eyes drift as the people on the TV flicker. His eyes can’t keep up.
I then catch him yawning. Mother nags him for playing spider solitaire the entire afternoon instead of sleeping. He goes to bed, defeated.
“I believe that what we become depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments, when they aren’t trying to teach us. We are formed by little scraps of wisdom.” [Umberto Eco]