Nettle

You know, some people say that you can tell a lot about a person by their hands. My father's hands told a story of hard work and dedication, but also of pain and suffering. They were always worn out, with fingers smeared in oil from years of working on scrap metal. The skin he wore was cracked and rough, a testament to the brutal conditions he often worked in. no matter how much he washed them, the residue of his labor stained his hands black. Despite the hard work and dedication my father put into his job, he still felt as if he had wasted his years and had nothing to show for it. He often lamented about how he had hoped to go further in life and provide more for our family, but the cold reality was that he was stuck in a job that barely paid the bills. To me, those hands were a symbol of resilience and determination. They showed me that no matter how tough the journey may be, it's important to never give up and to always keep pushing forward. He was a mechanic by trade, but to those in his field, he was a respected surgeon. A simple wrench placed in his hand became the finest of scalpel and he could carefully dissect and remove any toilsome tumor protruding from the heart of an engine. Their unturned gears would suddenly be brought back to life before your very eyes. People often brought vehicles in that were beat beyond recognition, that others would dismiss as nothing more than compacted junk served too long past its time. But my father could see the potential in every vehicle that came into his shop. Day and night, he would work his hardest on that operating table, pouring every ounce of effort into saving the countless lives of the 9 to 5 commuters. He never gave up, even when the odds seemed impossible. 

Growing up I would watch in sheer Bewilderment as he would drink 6 pots of coffee a day! can you believe that someone could do that? Unfortunately, old bones gave way to the stresses of his labor; tired, worn, and falling apart like the very object of his work. Just like that, the ever-chugging engine one day just came to an abrupt stop. Doctor said that his lifestyle rose his blood pressure like a kettle about to boil over, and eventually the brass blew its top. You see, his work consumed every little piece of him, but every single day with a cup of coffee in hand he would tip it in our direction and wore a proud and tired smile. Masking any negative emotion, It could light up even the darkest of rooms. He wore that pain and hard work like a badge of honor. But at the end of the day, I wonder what ever made him choose that life? His work was his own undoing and we watched it unravel like skin peeled off an apple, you just simply couldn't tell him to slow down... I aspired to work as hard as him, I grew up telling myself I wanted to be just like him, but as I age, I wonder if I'd still think the same.

You know what?... What truly matters at the end of the day is that you simply exist. Breathe in and let the contaminated air fill your lungs, and as you exhale, feel the weight of discharge leaving your body. It is repugnant to its core. It feels as grueling as viscous oil pushing through rusted pipes and as nauseating as an engine that won't start in the dead of winter. I'm realizing as we speak, that I hate the man my father was, he was always so obsessed with the idea that food on the table meant a happy home. But his obsession ruined this family.

​

My heart remained like a sputtering flame waiting to be reignited, but every day he wasn't around the flame would continue to dim, his tools couldn't possibly light it up. Waiting for him to come home I would often daydream, looking deep into the bright violet night sky, you could picture candle-lit dinners with shared tables full of warm atmosphere, but those dreams were never realized and as I would glace at the head of the table, I would see a shadow. Its empty eyes haunt my every waking moment, that thing wasn't my father, but a reminder that he would never be there. The bright and warm atmosphere would be drowned out by the dejected wails of my mother. You see, one can only spend so many nights alone without the embrace of another before waves of emotion begin to crash, these memories serve as harsh reminders and now all I feel is a deep sense of loss and regret. When I think about the concept of family, it fills me with anger and bitterness. 

What does it even mean, this idea of family? Is it just a way to justify putting your own needs and desires aside, to sacrifice your own happiness for the sake of others? I truly don't know.  All I know is that I don't want any part of it. I don't want to be like my father, toiling away for the sake of some nebulous idea of "family." I want to live my own life, to be true to myself and my own needs and desires. I don't care about the "engine" of family, and I'm not willing to do anything to make it tick, what about you?