restless. I feel restless whenever I am reminded that I am my father’s daughter. my fingers and eyes remind me of this fact when they follow the curl pattern of my hair and before I know it, I’m looking at my father’s curls; and I feel restless.
the music I listen to is another reminder; the notes reach the inside of my head and turn into memories of my father instantly. I see him running to his bedroom and shutting the door, I see tears running down my mother’s cheeks as she shuts her eyes. I can’t hear the slamming and the crying, though - they are both swallowed by a beast of sounds, a merge of piercing guitar solos, fast drum beats, and subtle bass lines. (my anxious heart still beats to that rhythm).
I click ‘shuffle’ and yet another memory starts playing. we are in his car; 808s are blasting so loud I’m afraid the windows will blow out, but they never do; my father is driving so fast I’m afraid we will crash and die, but we never do. he says he knows what he’s doing and I don’t argue. instead, I pick at my skin and peel and shed my fears until I turn into an adrenaline junkie. (this is survival).
I change the song once more and I find myself on the balcony of a huge dark venue. my father is beside me but he doesn’t acknowledge my presence - he is too busy looking at the stage the way he has never looked at anyone. later that night I find out that the thumping bass during live shows feels akin to the suffocating sense of restlessness buried in my chest. (lower frequencies travel further and subconscious feelings settle deeper).
I down vodka shots and one might think that I’m actually drinking water since my face doesn’t twist; I grimace moments later when I remember that vodka is my father’s water. someone makes a comment about how I can hold my liquor and I take it as a compliment - that is, until I recall this is something my father has always prided himself on. my friends think it’s funny how I don’t remember the things I did the night before but I don’t laugh; I keep thinking of my mother driving around town and looking for my blackout drunk father for days on end. he never remembers anything either but he does think it’s funny.
it dawns on me that even if I never see my father in the flesh ever again, I will still see him each time I look in the mirror. maybe, just maybe, if my eyesight were as bad as his is, then I wouldn’t be able to notice all the little things that make me my father’s daughter; but I do notice them and I realize my life is doomed to be a mere pastiche of my father’s life; and I feel restless.
