My father was never present while I was growing up. I remember thinking how not even his death could separate us any more than we already were. How wrong I was.
As a kid, what I wanted most was some my father’s attention. Not even affection. Just attention. He barely spent any time with me. Once–I was twelve–, he took me aside, and sat me down. We were going to have a chat. Or so I had hoped. Instead he told me my mother had left us–not him–us. And that it was the two of us alone from there on. I didn’t know then he meant each one of us. Alone.
It was only weeks later that I found out my mother had died. Our house robot told me. Thanks dad. If he barely spent time with me before, after my mother passed away he almost disappeared into his studio. Because, you see, my dad was a writer and he really didn’t have it in him to be father. It’s not me who says so. He told me that much himself.
If you asked me what memory I remember best about my father, that would be the double doors of his office behind which he locked himself up. I spent hours alone while was working. Doors close shut. Me, playing outside. Waiting for him to come out.
He was always writing. Or “creating” like he liked to call it. “I’m creating worlds you couldn’t imagine, Arturo.” He like to say things like that. That and “Don’t bother me.” Yeah, that one was another of his favorites. I’m sure he would have said that line the day when I knocked on his door, had he not been already dead.
