From very early in my childhood, older members from the fraternal side of my family have told me how much I look like my father. As I got older, I was told the resemblance grew stronger. I never quite saw it, but they were referring to me looking like my old man when he was whatever age I happened to be at the time. The first time it made any sense to me was shortly after I split with my ex-wife.
I had just shaved my head for the first time – ending a marriage leads most people to some radical changes – and my hair resembled the extremely close cut style my father favored in the 1960s. Whilst unpacking a box at my new loft, I came across a picture of my father from that era and I had to look at it twice to make sure that it wasn’t me. I finally got it.
My dad is a good looking man and it was comforting to finally see what others saw and to know what I was going to look like as I got older.
All these years of hearing it and me finally seeing it for the last decade or so didn’t prepare me for this week. It didn’t prepare me for the first time my mother called me by his name. It didn’t prepare me for the next evolution of our relationship as this wasn’t a slip of the tongue.
Some days are are chicken, some days feathers. I’m tired of eating feathers these days.
Posted by restaurant refugee 
