20

I am not my father. Though I search for him through the shadows of my past and in the cracks of my mannerisms. I have no memory; being gently swayed on comforting knees; raspberry kisses to my stomach; gleaming smile and slowed wink.

He emerges like Merlin, as soothsayer of wisdom drawn from muddy walls, well water and the thatched hunger of drive and ambition.

A requested encore 20 years on still bears the distance. Who will look to me 20 years after I am gone and still smell the lingering of cologne that will become my trademark in my later years, as I cling to familiar things? His time seems closer to me now than the time I remembered as I live within the same air.

You see nothing but the swelling wave, as you paddle hoping you’ll find the green room fearing of it eating you alive.