“I shook his hand and tore my heart in sunder, And went with half my life about my ways”

My father was a man who frowned upon judging those around him. Inscriptions of biblical phrases and beliefs were stitched inside his heart. He used it to protect us from this hell of a world that drowns in a puddle of faith. A world where the angst pray upon darkness and those who see light complain that it’s too bright, yet they refuse to give it to those who are seeping through gray clouds and lending their tears to the world. My father dished out kindness more than necessary, even to those who didn’t deserve it. For example, when we went to restaurants he gave waiters and waitresses that danced upon a pile of rudeness more money than they deserved. Except for that one time. It was last June on a warm night before final exams started and I probably should’ve been studying, but eating with a parent across the table from you is more than just a blessing. Anyway a waitress at the restaurant said I was going in the wrong direction when I got up to go to the bathroom, I was walking towards the women’s room. She said my hair was to short to identify who I really was even though hair is a characteristic. I’ve wanted short hair before I even learned that I was gay. The woman left me with embarrassment plastered on my face and my eyes were stinging because the tears were trying to emerge from my eyes and they felt like bullets as I held them back because the guns weren’t meant to be fired. I told my father and he said “She’s getting nothing” and we departed from the “hell in the wall.” My dad was angry, but I’ve only seen him mad. He’s lost his mind even though it was never truly gone because he found a way to bring it back by bribing it with an apology, asking for forgiveness from his flowers. We were his flowers. I was his flower. He’d shower us with eternal love. That was his style. It was who he was. It’s who he is.