Broken Reflections

Broken Reflections upon my Life.

Like father, like daughter

I used to think I was unlike my father in every way possible. For starters, he is tall, thin, and his skin is fairly tanned, his hair is dark as well as his serious and frivolous eyes. He is impassive and cold toward his family, his silence is a custom during dinnertime. I am also tall and thin, but my skin is white and pale with light brown hair resembling that of my mother and dark green colored eyes.

Every day he is absorbed by his work and only during the night I can his face. He rises early in the morning and dresses quietly, he goes into the kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee, its strong odor filling the house. He takes his briefcase, scrub, lab coat, and car keys and he disappears into the outside world. Without a “good bye”or “have a nice day at school”. It’s okay, I’m used to it, fourteen years of practice, until he left my life.

I am also an early riser, my bedroom window faces East to greet the rising sun. I have always been fascinated by the colors of nature, I adored how the faint orange color taints the horizon and gradually it turns to yellow. The moment I smell coffee I walk toward my balcony and slide open the sliding glass doors. Soft breezes welcomes me into the new day, I return to my bed and lie on it waiting for the appropriate hour to walk out of my bedroom: when I hear the front door close and his car coming to life.

Unspoken words go through my mind during breakfast, only I sit on the dining table, slowly sipping my glass of milk. My mother is busying herself in the kitchen, cleaning after my father, and preparing lunch for her. I rise from the table, taking my empty glass and plate toward the kitchen sink. I take my messenger bag and my coat and wait for my mother beside her car to take me to school.

The drive to my secluded and privilege school is enjoyed by stunning silence between us. For my part, I look out of the window and watch the sun slowly lift the veil of fog that falls every night. I kissed her good bye and jogged to my class in feared of being tardy again, but first I have to promise her I will behave. Which I do, reluctantly.

After seven extensive hours in school and other two hours after school rehearsing for a concert, I am finally home. My mother locks herself in the kitchen while I go to my room and work on my homework. Two hours later I am called to dinner and twenty minutes later the front door is opened and my father steps in. He is still in his coat, meaning he had a ruthless day at the hospital and would appreciate not being talked to. It was the same every night.

Our dinner is spent in silence, a comment is said every now and then by my mother to my father and viceversa, and by my mother and me. Never between my father and me.

When the moon is high on the sky, swarming between moving clouds, I bid them goodnight. I lay in bed, watching out of the window, looking at the stars. They tell me stories every night, and draw pictures in the night sky to delight me, then they watch me in my slumber.

I am awaken at night, my parents are arguing once again. Their voices pierce my ears and my heart. I pray silently, wishing for a truce. A door is slammed and I know its over, not only the fight, but also my life.

Three months later, when I was just barely fifteen, we moved away, my mother and me. Phone calls were rare, but they thought it was necessary. They thought it was for my sake, for me to understand that even when we are no longer a family their relationship was still standing. I also talk to my father, telling him how my classes and rehearsal were going. I asked about his work and the weather. It was colder over there.

I don’t hate him, I don’t remember to ever have had a quarrel or a fight with him. We were always silent, I guess I inherit, or rather learn from him, for I am a quiet creature as well. More laughter fills the house, my mother’s spirits are gleeful and its contagious. Up to this day, we have survived.

I guess sometimes I miss my father, his smell, and even his silent presence. I am the only early riser now, but I guess on the other side of the country my father greets the sun before I do. I came to realize we are alike in many ways.

The End

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