Young Writers Society

i am the son of a father, who is the son of a father, climbing up the branches until the only thing remaining of the fathers are their slight furrowed brows and the rumble of their voices.

my fathers are not the greatest people. both are cold, distant, and people i resent. one left me, the other leaves me, equally betraying.

i suppose i am "owned" by my father (familial). only reason is a tacky silver-black certificate telling the world that i am no longer my birth mother's son-- instead some child of a random woman across the ocean.

my name is supposed to mean "he who will be as virtuous as the sun". but my father (familial) tells me that i am stubborn and rude and brash as he hammers a nail into the wall, cussing each time he makes a mistake, wiping the sweat off his brow.

i say "you are hypocritical, and far too cynical for your own good." and he laughs but frowns all the same, sending me off and muttering within the roughness of his voice.

sometimes--- too often--- i am torn between resenting my father (birthing) and loving him. something as formative as him makes it difficult to choose because he hadn't even bothered to send my mother a letter, just to tell her "i will be there when i can, to see our son. i still love you." and when he came back i can only imagine the uproar he brought upon her when she said "i'm sorry, my love, i had to give him away."

so perhaps this duality of fathers is indicitave of something. i vaugely remember hearing something about history repeating itself-- so when i have a son, he will be bitter towards me. i shudder at the thought.

to have something monumental like a son, who'll be a son of a father, who is a son of two fathers, that could possibly become something like you are now-- is horrifying.

i cower as i think that he could, one day, decide to pull himself up the branches of our heritage and all i will be able to say then is-

"you will know when you are there, the place i was when i was your age, where i will be there for you, furrowing my brow, holding out a letter for you."

and then i will have to fade into a faint rumble of a voice like the rest of them.