A Portrait of a Father's Soul

They say I cannot wake the dead,

but can I give it a try

with my brush and my paints?

Please-

let me try to bring my father back to life.

Let me dip my brush into a black

the color of bitter licorice candy

we'd savor for Christmas at his mother’s.

Let me paint his eyes with it,

let me see the countries he explored,

the sunsets in Madrid his vision would soak in

as he called me to say: "Good morning, Conejita".

I swear I can trace his thick, long eyelashes,

The ones coated in tears that day he said:

"One day you’ll grow and leave me. "

Did he ever fathom he wouldn’t

witness his little girl become a woman?

So let me bring him back to life.

Let me create a curve for his nose,

the nose he gave to me as I formed

in my mother’s belly.

The nose that inhaled the smoke

of the family bonfires, the barbeques;

the smoke of the fire that claimed his life.

I swish my paintbrush in water,

the color of my father’s

eyes and nose forming clouds in the glass.

Did he ever imagine he would go that way?

Another curve for one of his ears,

the ear forced to take in

the wails and screams of his patients,

the unfortunate ones they would wheel in,

scorched and withering, victims of flames,

hoping the white robe he wore

meant he could keep death away.

A second curve for his other ear,

the one that captured the sounds of

everything else his story could’ve been.

The echoes of laughter around the

family shop he wished to have inherited.

The do-re-mi's and intervals of the

songs he wished he could’ve composed.

I swirl the brush in water,

and bring a flesh pink to the canvas.

Two thin lines for his lips.

The ones that shaped letters into

jokes released to the Sunday lunch table

surrounded by his brothers and sisters.

The lips that would touch

the cold flask of whiskey

the moment he left work the Monday after.

The whiskey meant to erase

what he saw, what he heard,

what he imagined his life

could’ve looked like.

The whiskey that would unleash

the goofy, uncoordinated father

chasing me and my laughing brother,

ideating fantasy worlds we’d

adventure into those nights after work,

making us believe everything was okay,

as my mother watched from the corner,

clutching her wedding band he’d break off one day,

trying to smile but knowing the whiskey was just

flimsy cotton meant to fill up a hollowness inside him.

He always hoped to fill it, he thought he would.

He worked hard for the notion of a someday.

I dip my brush in black again

and dot the shadows of a beard

that scratched my lips the last

time I kissed his cheeks

goodbye.

That day, he’d been close to that “someday”.

But his story had a bad sense of humor,

and decided to end itself short.

Before his mother would’ve wanted,

before he would’ve wanted,

before I would’ve wanted.

So I continue with my journey

to bring him back to life.

This time with the brown of

his forehead, cheeks, and chin,

the skin that smelled like

cologne and cinnamon candy.

The skin that coated his

short body, the body that hugged

me so tight that last day,

like he knew he would never feel me again.

The skin the fire melted off

on a Tuesday morning,

too fast and too unexpectedly.

I paint his grey coat,

the one that smelled like the mint

shampoo he’d wash his black curls with.

The same one he maybe would’ve worn

to sleep eternally in his coffin,

if his body would’ve made it out the fire.

The same coat he wears when he

visits me in my dreams.

I step back and admire his soul,

a colorful work in progress

on the canvas in front of me.

And I continue my task,

my attempt to bring back the dead,

with my brush and my paints.