The Man Who has No Face.

Its been a lot and a while. I met with my oldest brother after nearly a decade and wrote this about my father who died when I was 8 or maybe 9.

A brick flew through the window today. 

Found me tucked, maybe drowning, 

Beneath a weighted blanket in a house that is not my own. 

And maybe it was not actually a brick afterall–

But it was something heavy. 

The man who has no face was sensitive. 

Death will do that to you, or so I’ve heard. 

Wipe your face from the memory 

of everyone who knew you.

Or didn’t.

Or cannot quite remember knowing you.

Or can, sometimes.

Or doesn't even really want to that much. 

My brother says I look just like him. 

Says I look just like the man 

whose face I cannot remember. 

Or can, 

sometimes, 

a little.

He speaks to me of the man with no face– 

whose face he has seen enough times to remember. 

Says he liked to drive fancy cars. 

Uses words like charming

and fit,

And all American. 

Says he was unserious. 

And when he speaks to me,

I remember.

Not everything–

but some of the things. 

I remember seeing my Uncle Raymond in the hospital,

with staples in his head,

 and crying 

because when I looked 

I saw my fathers intubated face. 

I remember my mothers voice before:

“There's your dad running,”

as we drove down Seward Park Drive.

I remember his smile,

A bald head adorned with a rainbow clown wig. 

A drop-top, sky- blue Cadillac that glinted in the sun. 

Laughter. 

I remember sitting on the steps of my grandmother's house 

eating ice cream–

and all the years 

I ate ice cream.

And what is a father anyway? 

And how come I can’t remember the last time I wanted one? 

Or worse–

what if I can? 

My mother says she heard babies crying

 when she laid on the not-quite-faceless 

but absolutely dead man's chest. 

Years ago, of course. 

More than two decades before. 

Before the birth. 

Before the not-quite-faceless but absolutely dead man 

became a father.

Again.

I am told the man with no face–

well, you know what I mean.  

My mother told me he was a sensitive child. 

A self-proclaimed former “cry baby.” 

Before, of course. 

Before the grandfather 

whose face I never saw to remember 

beat it out of him 

or tried.

It sounded familiar in a way– 

beating the sensitive out of a child. 

Or threatening to 

at least. 

Or wishing you could.

And failing. 

My brother talks to me

with some combination of unbroken and hurt in his eyes.

Shows a tenderness so familiar 

I am not sure how I could have forgotten to remember. 

Speaks to me of losses before losses. 

Says his mother has a scar.

Uses words like: abuser, addict, murderer.

Says I am better for not having known

the not-quite-faceless but absolutely dead man–

who hurt him so much. 

An abuser.

An addict.

A murder?

A father? 

Dead. 

My brother talks to me. 

Some combination of unbroken and hurt in his eyes. 

A tenderness so familiar

How could I have forgotten?

Speaks to me of losses before losses

Leaks water.

Speaks with the weight 

of being the firstborn son. 

Of carrying 

so much 

memory.

And there is enough love

and enough unbroken 

to break a heart. 

Says I am better for not having known

the not-quite-faceless but absolutely dead man 

who hurt so much. 

I look into his eyes 

and I am disturbed–

but not surprised. 

I remember. 

Not everything, of course

But some of the things. 

I remember the rage I felt

when I dumped his ashes into Lake Washington 

in the night. 

I remember sitting on my grandmother's porch 

waiting. 

An abuser.

An addict.

A murder?

A father? 

Dead.

The man with no face 

was not a father after all. 

Only taught his children how not to love. 

Handed out hurt 

where I was handed absence. 

So God bless the children that parent themselves. 

God bless the children who fight to be

so much 

better. 

God bless all that is hurt

 and yet still unbroken 

in us.