A Face In The Clouds
Tuesday, Feb. 18, 2003 12:11 am
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He had cancer.

He was born with a disfiguring birthmark that covered his entire torso. The doctors told my Gran that it wasn't cancer, but it should be removed for cosmetic reasons. So he endured surgery after surgery, twenty-two skin grafts in total, until his skin resembled a patchwork quilt.

But they missed a spot. The tumor grew from a tiny mole, a pencil thin stretch of skin about an inch long. He found out he was going to die at twenty years old, nine months after he married my mother.

When I was five, and ten, and fifteen. twenty-five seemed so old. Now, I will be twenty-three in March. So close to his age. It scares me.

I have become obsessed with birth marks. I sometimes catch myself checking Jay or Hani's skin, searching for any change, however slight it may be.

I don't even remember him anymore, if I ever did.

My family loves to retell favorite stories about my dad. He died so young, its how they keep him alive.

They revel in his practical jokes, his paintings, his love for me and my brother.

"Your father loved you so very very much."

-and-

"Your Father is always watching over you, he is always there."

Those two lines were repeated to me so many times during my childhood that I started seeing him everywhere I looked.

I couldn't go to the bathroom or shower without wondering if he was looking down from heaven, his head poking through the fluffy white clouds.

I am sort of numb when it comes to him now. I only feel awkward and unsure when his name comes up. I never know how I am supposed to refer to him, as he was never 'daddy' or 'dad' or 'pops'.

He was just "Your Father" capital Y capital F.

When I was little I used to talk about him a lot. In school I would often tell other kids that my dead was dead. Died of cancer.

It made me feel better to be different, before I understood what death really was.

I can't even see his face anymore, when I think of him I see a picture in a frame. The only memory I have left after twenty years is of his hand.

I can see our old apartment, the dark kitchen cabinets are a dull blur, the shades are drawn. The lumbering shape of his metal hospital bed towered above me, I had to look up to see it.

I was so thirsty, and he dragged himself out of bed to pour me some juice.

And there was his hand, pale and sprinkled with freckles as he twisted the cap off the glass bottle of orange juice.

Artwork © Jessica Galbreth