I sit on the bed with my dad. He has no face but I know he is my father. I haven't seen him since I was three years old. Once upon a time, he must have had a face, but it has faded along with every other memory of him. We are making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches using saltines as substitutes for bread. I take a bite and the cracker crumbles down my shirt landing in my lap. He smiles at me. I cannot see the smile but I can feel its presence. I know he is happy. I return the smile and we finish our mini sandwiches on paper plates making a lovable mess.
My mother tells me that this never happened. I have told her about this memory many times and she always insists on its implausibility.
"He was never home with you during the day, Jess. He was always working or drunk," she tells me.
I also could not possibly have been old enough to participate in the making of the sandwiches. He left us when I was three. Maybe I just watched him make the snack alone, or maybe it was my mother whom I shared the moment with. I have tried to rationalize it and I have heard my mother's truth multiple times yet the memory stays.
He is faceless but the vision in my mind is vivid. I taste the crackers, I feel them break, I sense his smile, I know he is my father. I may be lying to myself and to you but amidst all of the hatred and heartache this is the only memory I have of him and it is sweet. Can you really take that from me?
By Jess
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