Twenty years later. Across the street is where my father died. All I have are photographs and people saying I remind them of him. I always felt his shadow. I’ve seen the clouds behind my mother’s eyes on all those birthdays, on all these holidays spend with his ghost lurking behind me. It feels like I’ve never been just me, as if my life is his apology, or a promise I have to keep for him. Give me something to call my own. I can’t be someone I am not. Walk in the footsteps of a coward. Keep comparing his life to mine. I refuse to be a ghost, a copy or an ideal version of him. I just want to be me.
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