Thomas

Twelve months later.

 

Tom,

My son.

It’s taken me a long time to put that in words. Far longer than I’ll ever be able to live with.

One day soon, when these lungs of mine breathe their last and I cross over into whatever fate awaits me in the great beyond, I hope there is at least one angel there to greet me with open ears, just so I can tell them how proud I am of the son I don’t deserve.

I don’t deserve you, Thomas, nor your forgiveness.

I’m just asking you, please, son. Please give an old man the chance to express how sorry he is for his biggest mistake in his life.

I’ve been hard on my other son, Brett. Too hard at many times, hoping to instil in him the urge to live his life to the fullest and not make the same mistakes a fool like me made through his own weaknesses.

I could tell you about your mother. About the heartache I felt when she was loving other men, but I won’t. There is no excuse that would come close to defending my absence from your world when it mattered.

You see, son, it doesn’t make a difference. Blaming other people never does. People can be shit-bags and assholes, but our failures are always our own. Own them, change them, demand more from yourself than a pat on the back and a better luck next time.

I should have owned mine long ago.

I’m sorry I haven’t owned them sooner. Believe me, I’ve wanted to. I just wanted to make sure my Brett found his feet in life before unleashing his disappointment in me. He looks up to me more than he should do, and that’s a mantle I carry heavily. I hope you can understand me for striving to father at least one of you boys in the way you deserve.

He’s a good lad. A good husband. His wife, Grace, is a gem of a woman too. You’d love her, I’m sure, if only they had the chance to be a family at your side, the way I should’ve been.

I’ve followed you eagerly from afar, biting my tongue until the point I dared risk facing my failures. Only, you didn’t make any of your own.

I’m proud of you, Tom. Proud of all you’ve achieved. Proud that you work so hard, push so hard. Aim so high in this world and conquer everything set to topple you.

I’d have loved to reach out before now, but I know how it would look. I know the suspicion you’d hold in your heart about my true motives for breaking that barrier and calling you my own while you are flying so high.

It’s not about the money, Thomas. I don’t want any money from you. I know I could never reach out now, I’ve lost my window of ever of holding you close, the way I should have done when you needed me, but I can write this message to you, and hope that you read it when I’m gone.

I don’t want anything but your knowledge that there was a man and he loved you, even though he was too weak a fool to say it when he had the chance.

If you read this, please consider building bridges with my Brett.

He should’ve been your brother, and he would have done you proud. I’m sure you’d love him, just the way I do, and he’d love you right back, the way I do.

Goodbye, son.

Yours with a love you’ll never know, and a heart that wishes for nothing more than your awareness of the truth,

Your dad, George.

I know it by heart already, my father’s letter. I’ve kept it in my inside pocket every step of the way around this beautiful globe of ours. Through the sprawling states of the USA while speeding in a growling Mustang, to the sedate canals of a freezing Venice in the heart of winter.

I’ve seen it all, done it all, and his words have been there every step of the way. Reminding me what it’s like to carry regret with you until you die.

I won’t be making that mistake myself.

“Hello, Dad,” I speak aloud, staring at the sky on this sunny spring morning as the cemetery chirps with life. “I’m pleased today is under more pleasant circumstances than the last.”

I drop the white rose onto the green bank of earth and drop my letter down with it.

“It’s taken me a while to come back to this place. I needed to find my feet first. Not in a world of handshakes and stocks and shares, but in people. In life. I have you to thank for my awakening.” I can’t hold back the smile. “Well, you and my brother, of course.”

I pull out my latest postcard from my pocket. I’ve yet to send this one to their sweet slice of heaven. The final one I posted from overseas was from Paris, just a week ago from now. I trusted they were still getting them, a new destination every week with the same short text I’d been sending since driving into the night and out of their life all those months ago.

Thinking of you. Goodbye is not farewell.

Tom x

And a kiss. I always ended it with a honeycomb ice cream kiss.

I hope they are ready for my reappearance one day in the not so distant future. I hope they’ve missed me even a fraction as much as I’ve missed them as I’ve forged my first genuine path in this world, with the boy inside me taking greater gulps of air with every step.

I’m not scared of him now. Not scared of heartbreak or disappointment or putting my newly-discovered heart on the line.

Not scared of love.

Of life.

“They’re still down there, Brett and Grace,” I tell the dead man under my feet. “An anonymous businessman snapped up the hotel down the coast from them. He got it at a bargain price as well, I hear, since they couldn’t get their staffing crisis under control. Rumour has it he’s going to turn it into a training centre for disadvantaged youths, but I’ve heard he’s generally quite a cunt, so those rumours aren’t running too rife through the city.”

I light up a cigar, my first in weeks.

“I’m sorry we never met. I guess we’ve both got plenty of mistakes we’ll carry to our grave. Maybe you’ll be waiting for me on the other side and we can shake hands like grown-ups looking to start again.” I chance a smile. “Or maybe we’ll hate each other for our similarities. Either way, I look forward to it.”

I tip my head at a passing couple, my heart pounding at the clench of her fingers in his.

“In the meantime,” I continue. “I have some mistakes of my own to rectify. I just hope she’s been reading my postcards before she bins them.”

I reach out to touch the headstone, no longer hating the name Foster and everything it stands for.

“Goodbye, Dad. I hope Brett and Grace are up the duff by now. I’m hoping there’s a little niece or nephew to greet me when I head back down to the coast with my new bride on my arm.” I pause to take a final drag on my cigar, only this time I don’t drop it onto his grave. “Wish me luck, of course, she might not say yes to me yet. I know I wouldn’t.”

I laugh at that.

But that doesn’t matter, not today.

Winning isn’t everything, not anymore.

It’s the taking part that counts.

And I’m hoping to take every part of Polly Piper she’ll give me.