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I found a picture today that I keep in a box that I never open. In that box there are letters I wrote but never gave, poems I wrote but never showed, and pictures I never look at. I guess it's where I keep things from my past that is too hard to let go of.
So in this picture is a man leaning up against a white, paint-chipped house. His grey t-shirt is smudged with black residue and his pants are worn at the knees. His eyes are deep-set, focused and determined. They are honey brown, identical to my very own. His smile is crooked and strained, suggesting it was a rare occurrence. Although this man is practically a stranger to me, he is by far the greatest inspiration in my life.

The mystery man in the photograph is my father. They say he was a nice man when drinking didn't impair his judgment. I remember him vaguely, but I never remember a nice man. He was hardly ever around but when he was, it was like a whirlwind of chaos. He hit, he yelled, and other than that I don't think he noticed any of his children. Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if he would have really been apart of it. I never will know for sure because when I was five years old he took his own life.
It's hard to explain why this lost man is my inspiration. I guess it's because his life and premature death has inspired me to be the opposite of him. He gave up on himself and everyone around him. He let a substance control his life. Because of my intense fear of becoming him, I worked like hell to make good grades and be the first in my family to go to college. I will never let his past define my future. I want to be better than him. I will be better than him, I already am.

Learn more about this author, Sheree Adams.
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