FIRST TIME WITH MY FATHER

FIRST TIME WITH MY FATHER

There was always the smell of linseed oil and terpentine and greyish,
dirty-looking rags all around. And there was a great big book on the
coffee table of famous paintings. My father seemed a teeny bit uneasy
that I preferred to sit on the couch with the large book of pictures,
rather than move around. I hadn't seen my father for two years. There
were pictures of throngs of angels and chubby cupids with naked rumps
and kneeling, immaculate Virgins. I was a tall girl but still
uncentered and not yet transformed into a stable, feminine soul, like
most girls my age. The years without a father were clearly leaving
their mark on my eventual transition into womanhood. Like the star
prizefighter, I had been coached, two years earlier, by my mother,
beforehand, on what to say to the Judge, when time came for awarding
custody. It was my complete spiritual undoing that I hadn't been
spontaneous and chosen my father, whom, in my heart, I really felt more
comfortable with and liked best, although according to my mother, he
never did the caring for me. Before I knew it, it was time to go. I
wouldn't seen my father again for four years.