I haven’t seen my old man in so many years. Looking back, it comes to me that we didn’t see each other more than we did. He was gone for work when I was thirteen, and since that time, we only occasionally talked on the phone. He would visit us about once a year, but he felt like a guest at our house. He was a stranger now since being out for so long does change a person. Back then, I was just a teenager, and not many things mattered to me. I didn’t care. I didn’t have anything to say; whatever parents decided to do was the law, and I could not question or not follow it. We separated for good for seventeen years with no visits, no photos, and just some rare phone calls. It became a new norm, a new life for all of us. Questions about where your father was, were not asked by others because everybody got used to my father being somewhere far away and he’ll never be here with us, so it doesn’t matter anymore.

My old man wasn’t always this old. I remember him as a younger man, full of energy, power, and life lessons. He wasn’t well-educated, but he was street smart. There was so much wisdom in his words that I would learn as time went by. He was right on so many levels, but the lessons he taught me were a bit pre-mature for my foolish, childish brain, and they didn’t register right away. He kept on preaching and teaching me things, and I continued to ignore them. Time has caught up with me, though. As a young man, my old man was always angry, and he never liked other people. Other people were always dangerous, mean, harmful, bad-spirited, and for some reason, they always wanted to take advantage of us. The only safe place in the world was our old house which was our home, which was the only place we could feel safe and relaxed.

I remember when I was fifteen, and he taught me how to drive a car. His lesson didn’t last too long. After the first day, I left the car crying, drowning in tears, because the old man had no patience with me, and I didn’t know when to focus on the road or his screams. The next day my mother signed me up for driving school, and some other man was teaching me the driving skills. 

I don’t remember doing things together with my old man. He was always around, there was always too much of him, but I don’t recall that we had a thing that we would always do together. Maybe we did when I was very young, and I just don’t remember. When my brother was born, everyone stopped worrying about me, and he became the main focus and the primary loving child at home. Later as we grew up, I was always the bad child, and I always did things wrong, and I was always to blame for everything, just because I was the older son. My younger brother was never to blame for anything as I took all the punishments for both of us. I remember my father playing with my brother a lot. I always knew he liked him more, and that was quite obvious. I wasn’t the favorite anymore because I was an older son and older brother. The older son always got the kick.

I remember the beatings too. My old man was always angry with something or somebody and released his anger on me. I didn’t know know why he might have a good reason for it. I always took the blame. He’d scream and curse and threw some punches. He never explained things the right way, in a calm manner. I got used to it over time. His screams became the norm and sounded the same every time. Even his beatings were the same: same punches, same slaps, the same anger, same moves, same stupid reasons. I took them all myself, later sitting all alone in my room, crying and wishing him to disappear. Wishing he would be gone and never lived with us anymore. I knew this would never happen, but I was a kid, and I could wish for anything then. It made me feel better. It was to be my revanche. I didn’t realize then that my wishes would become true one day. They did. One day he was gone and for many, many years. He was still my father, my old man. Things were just not the same anymore, and we became strangers sporadically talking on the phone about what happened in our lives. It was hard to fill in the minute of conversation with some random thoughts and comments.

We spoke on the phone a few times a year. We lived in different countries on different continents now. Seeing or visiting was out of the question, was always too expansive, and especially now when pandemics shut everything down, it was impossible. I always wanted to see him all these years. I felt that the father figure was truly missed. I needed the old man in my life, and I needed his support, his presence. I was raised primarily by myself, living with my mother for most of my life. I knew that I would be incomplete as a person until I see him until we meet again until we reconnect. There was this burden on me that I needed somehow to overcome.  

It took us seventeen years to see each other again, not in person, though, but on the phone screen. He was old, so much older, my old man. I was trying to imagine how the old man looks now, right before that video call, and I haven’t even seen a picture of him since the breakup. I knew he might have grey or white hair and a mustache if he still had any. I was trying to imagine what his face would look like now. 

He’s changed. He had certain features on his face that he’d carried throughout life. It took me about half a minute to realize that the old man on the phone screen was indeed my old man. The only thing I could recognize was his voice. The weird thing our imagination plays on us is that your only memory about the person you haven’t seen for a while is that last memory from when you’ve seen each other last. I still remember exactly what he looked like seventeen years ago when we said goodbyes to each other at the airport and parted to different countries. That was the image I still have had in my mind every time I talked to him on the phone. Looking at my screen, I tried to connect the dots and match the face on the screen with my old man’s memories.

He was happy to see me as well. The old man’s face smiled at me with puffed-up red cheeks and a missing bottom tooth. He was pleased that I bought and sent him over a smartphone, and now after so many years, we could finally see each other. I was trying to study each feature on his face, each scar, and every little line. The years took their toll; the booze took its toll; the cigarettes did as well. He was still the same inside, though. He was still cracking jokes, and his voice even became a bit harsher but was still pretty much the same. I was trying to take some screenshots while I had him on the video call. I knew he wasn’t sure how to use a smartphone or take pictures yet, so I wanted to have some memories of this conversation. 

The good thing about my old man is that even back in the day when he was younger and meaner, he was as real as they come. He never pretended to be somebody else, or he never pretended to become better, cooler, or richer. He was just a simple regular working man. That was his pride. Even now, he wasn’t trying to look better or have a better first impression after seventeen years. He cracked the joke about his missing tooth in the first minute of our conversation. He was the same hardworking man all his life, working hard and being grateful he still had a job. The saddest thing was that he wasn’t trying to improve his life or his financial position at all.

Back in the day, he was too dependent on my mother’s guidance, and he never learned to live on his own. Now, after he was living on his own for so many years, I could see that. He looked poor and broken, used and used up, living on the cheap rent hoping for another day and another bottle of wine. I felt happy to see my old man regardless. He was still my old man right there on my phone screen. He was talking to me, and we had a friendly chat. I love him, and I was happy to see him regardless of his appearance or living conditions. He was my father, my old man, and we haven’t lost touch after so many years where we could just forget about each other. 

I was a father myself now as well. Since my son was born, I wondered how my old man looked at me when I was a child. What did he say or do? How he carried me as a baby in his arms? Every time I look at my son, I think about my old man. Because now I’ve become one. I wanted the old man to see my son and to be proud and happy for me. I sent him a bunch of pictures every month since he was born. I didn’t want him to miss any moments of his life, even with all the distance between us. There were moments captured when he was born at the hospital, the first minute of his life, the first visit home, the first toy, the first bath, the first step, the first time eating with a spoon, the first birthday… I wanted him to see all of that. I wanted him to be part of all that life that he will never be again. I wanted him to be part of my new family as much as possible. I wanted to be a good son for my old man and to be a good human being, after all. I hope my son will treat me the same when I become old, living too far away to visit. I hope my son will take care of me one day, keep me in his life, send me some pictures of my grandchildren, and talk to me about anything. I want to build better family relationships when I had with my family when I was growing up. I will never allow my family to fall apart over any financial or job circumstances or anything else. We have to be strong and have to be together because we are so vulnerable and weak on our own.

My old man has not been part of our family for a while now, but I always thought of him as he still was. My mother is still holding grudges, and I can’t and don’t judge her. She has her reasons, and she has her life. I am happy to have a father again, and I am glad that we reconnected. I would like to see him in person one day. I’d like him to see all of us, visit us. I just hope that one day won’t be too late.