by Charles Gillis

Created on: April 26, 2008

I hardly knew my father. Even so, every few years my grandmother would try to get us together. As a child she used to trick me innocently enough. When I stayed at her house during the summers she would say that today was the day that my dad was coming. It was clear that my face showed disappointment each time this ruse was pulled. The dad who arrived would be my biological father, not the stepfather whom I expected to appear to take me home. I knew who this other guy was, but that was limit of our connection. This man was a stranger to me, and each me met he searched my eyes for some glimmer of recognition, finding only the confused blinking of an eight year old kid perplexed by the literal definition of the word "dad." As for this guy who wanted that title, well, I hardly knew the man.

His brother, now there's a different story. Summertime with my grandparents meant lots of time with my father's brother. Although my uncle had children of his own he always made time for me. He always treated me like one of his own kids. In fact, at times he treated me better than his own kids. He treated me as any decent man would treat their brother's son, had their brother disappeared.

As the years passed I went through phases. For some time I wondered about my biological father's new life. For another period I was very sad not to know him. Later I was angry for not having the chance to know him. After many years he blended into obscurity. Any harsh feelings that remained were buried long ago. After all, I have my own sons now and I my energies are focused on being a good father.

When I took my first newborn son to a party at my grandparent's home the whole family was there. When I entered I saw my father in the corner of the room, ten feet and a universe away. He stopped listening to the conversation that he was in when he saw us. His gaze was fixed on me and his grandchild in my arms. He stepped forward slightly, breaking free to greet us. My uncle swooped in front of him and took the baby in his arms. Let me see my beautiful boy, he said. He raised my son up and smiled, and showed him around the room, like any proud grandfather would. Of course, his brother technically held that title, but he hadn't earned it. My uncle claimed the rights. When he was good and ready he slowly passed my son to my father. My father's hands twitched in anticipation. Their eyes met. My uncle spoke volumes without saying a word and then he then handed over the boy.

My older son is now about the age that I was when my parents were divorced and my father went away. I think about that a lot. I think about the time when my father met his grandson. It was the first and the last time they met. I can't forget the look on his face when he first held the child and I can't forget the look when I took the child back. There was a moment of recognition of the missed opportunities that often occur in the busy lives of our parallel worlds. Now as my father grows old and ill I imagine that he thinks of us occasionally. I imagine that he wonders what it would be like to have his grandchildren near him in his final days. I think he would like that. Or perhaps not. I wouldn't know. I hardly know the man.

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