MEMO 01: When Fathers Leave
And daughters grow too tall.
Dearest Stranger,
When fathers leave, you sit down and write. You plug in some senseless music with a fun beat, and put in a nicotine pouch between your cheek and gum, and then you write. Let it all encompass you in waves, feeling the stiffness of your muscles melt away.
This should be your second time taking it, the nicotine pouch. The first when it seems inevitable that something hefty has shifted, and the second when he texts your sister to pack him a bag.
After he visits, sees your grandparents as they beg him to stay, you have to watch him spill some selfish poetry and insult your mother who is in the other room praying. Sister crying as she watches him leave, and you there out of courtesy wondering why she won’t just let go of his hand. It’s like that.
You hold your grandfather’s hand tightly, who you don’t even know, save for his transgressions, more than you could ever know, less than your father could ever impart, and only because his heart is feeble, and it’s aching, and you stand beside him holding the blanket, tightly tucking him in and feeling yourself float, not like you are right now with the pouch in your mouth, but in a dazed and confused sort of way.
You chant, “Meadows in the trees, meadows in the trees, meadows in the trees” some 8-10 times before correcting your head and saying, “trees in a meadow, trees in a meadow, trees in a meadow,” in the silence of the room, everyone sitting — no one letting him leave and you following their lead because you think you have to.
Feeling the tears not come, and then watching your eyes well up because of the energy in the room, not because you feel like it, and then thinking, what am I supposed to feel, what am I feeling, am I out of it? Or numb? Or a robot? And then trees in a meadow, trees in a meadow, trees in a meadow, trees in a fucking meadow. How long are you supposed to keep the thing in your mouth? It doesn’t really do shit once you take it out anyway, just two dots.
Because your dad just takes these to stave off his cigarette addiction, which you tried to get rid of, wished you had the balls to make him give up — and then succumbing to his whims.
Not like an addict, but to alleviate something. Only because he left, really. Not really sure to alleviate what, but like after a long asthma attack, when the meds finally kick in, minus your heart beating too fast, and your lungs aching in relief that there’s nothing stopping the conversion of oxygen in them anymore.
When fathers leave. When fathers leave.
“It happens everywhere, I think,” so he said. He also said, “Seeing these times will make us stronger.” Bullshit, selfish man. Man I love, and detest. Trees in a meadow, trees in a meadow, trees in a meadow. AURORA in my ears, you cannot eat money, oh no. Not really. So he thinks, but is after, even believes it. How do you combat delusion? Trees in a meadow, so the flowers can grow back again. Everything wants to live.
And then you go to the bathroom, rinse your mouth, flush the pouch, and go eat dinner with everyone. Somewhat nauseous, mostly fatherless.
When fathers leave, they come back. Some of them are fickle like that. Spine growing a tail, tail tugged between legs, legs stiff with arrogance. You hate its presence. Father turned dog, ages ago really, but now settled in the chest reformed. Alchemised. Could just be mother nature. The natural cycle turning us all into who we are.
You grew abnormally. As a kid, that is. Inch by inch, like a vine. Sore thumb sticking out of the herd. Broad shoulders wilted inwards like mounds. Fathers can’t reconcile daughters almost as tall as them. Not in Pakistan. Their desi egos huff and puff until you’re one of those in the crowd of other women. Woman, not daughter. Stranger on the street type of alienation.
Fathers like that don’t talk, because they have no sons. They need a ball for the chain to tie around your ankle.
You are blessed, which is to say, you are not just fatherless — but that you are fatherless like you are brother-less. It is a matter of the universe. Of God, if you will.
When fathers leave, they know this. They come to swipe their nicotine from your mother’s dresser. You find out when you come looking for it again. Him in your room, you in the doorways. One foot forward, another backward. No room tender. So you pace aimlessly, knowing there’s no place to sit. But you don’t have to.
When fathers leave, mothers find footing. You, the tall daughter, may step foot out. So you walk. Walk out onto the street, and up the hill, and away. Get the rickshaw all the way to Murree Road to pay your sister’s CIAE fee bill. Accept a loan from your friend’s father to pay your own transport bill.
Woman in the crowd, daughter of one. Sister to three.
It all comes in waves. Or doesn’t. There is a freedom here. Fatherlessness is to be free of something conjured. Feeble aspiration and wanton wishes. Car rides you’d been taking from friends way before he left, kind of shit. Saying no for things before asking, sort of reality. Watching everyone get a license through dads, sort of emptiness. Showing yours an article, and being told to be positive, type of bullshit.
Kill his mother kinda positive? Or kill yourself kinda positive? You could’ve asked if you hadn’t archived his WhatsApp. Unpinned his profile. Scraped him from the peripheral of life. You just know for sure that when fathers leave, and brother-less daughters grow too tall, there is only guilty relief. And your mother’s bromazepam.
Oh and — when fathers leave, you exercise one last act of weakness, you keep their clothes, and let it be. Let it go.
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