the old man

Everyone envied me. Well, maybe not everyone. At least, my friends did. I was motherless. I lived in a small house with only two rooms, tattered curtains, cracked walls, stained floor, shabby furniture and a roof that leaked every time God decided to shower the earth. I never had what other kids in school got to wear-neatly ironed set of clean clothes, a pair of gleaming black shoes and immaculate socks, and sometimes, a cool red cap too especially on blistering hot days. My best set of clothes had stubborn gravy stains on them, not to mention a few conspicuous holes. Like the other boys, I played games too. Only that the games I entertained myself with required scrubbing dirt off my skin at the end of the day. Those boys were better; they got to stay dry and spotless all the time.

Most of my friends had busy parents. Their parents wore extravagant suits and carried a huge handsome leather case. Very important people indeed. My dad was a busy man too, though not really significant to many people except me. He was my father and also my mother. Sometimes in the evening, I would sit on my favorite dilapidated stool (it did not bring about any mishaps, surprisingly) and overlooked the dusty windows covered with cobwebs at the corners, pondering, can I be any luckier?

My dad was the only matter that I could boast about, if I had to. He was what often made my friends envious, despite their luxurious and lavish lives. I mean, they were literally clueless about fishing! Some even find hiking laborious, which was not true. Worst of all, being helpless was all they could muster to struggle for dear life when they slipped into a river. I did feel sorry for them. Video games won’t save their lives after all, one thing their parents ought to realize. Not dad though; his wisdom was much broader than those expensive briefcases and velvet ties altogether.

“Dad, how come you’d never told me about mum? How does she actually look like?” I looked up from my old fishing rod and squinted at the old man’s weary eyes. It was a sweltering afternoon, plus without a cap. The old man’s face tensed up and quickly recovered. Beads of sweat trickled from his temple.

“Your mum passed away in a car accident, didn’t she? She was really beautiful…like an angel…,” he answered, lost in reminiscence.

“I heard that before. There must be something more about her that you must’ve forgotten to tell me, or not telling me,” I retorted impatiently, looking away from him to hide my sulk. Dad sensed my imminent tantrum. He put his hand around my shoulder and squeezed it.

“I’ve told you everything you wanted to know, son. What you really need to understand is that she loved you very much and would want you to be happy with your life. And you being miserable for not knowing how she looked like will only make her upset. You don’t want that now, do you?” Dad explained slowly, patting gingerly on my back. He knew I missed my mother.

“I wouldn’t want her to be upset. I was just…curious…” I roughly wiped the tears welling in my eyes with the back of my hand. Suddenly I felt vulnerable.

Boys were not supposed to cry!

“You know, it feels really weird to be told what someone had done for you when you can’t actually remember it or know whether it really happened. Sadly, Mum appeared in my mind nothing but a woman with curly hair, like how you described it. I can’t even recall what her eyes colour was,” I said with a tinge of frustration. The innocent fish was tossed back into the river.

“You were really young then,” consoled dad. He avoided my eyes.

It was only five years later that I discovered the truth… or rather, a blatant lie dad had been hiding from me.