My father died before I was born. To me, he did not exist. I didn’t hate him, nor do I love him unconditionally. I just didn’t harbour any emotion as his child, except for respect for the man I’m honoured to call my father.

My mother had loved him for very, very long. In the stories she told, he was a tall, solid-built, energetic young man. A quick-handed, sly boy that able to make anything wrong right again. His skin was a perfect tone of purest onyx that gleamed in the moonlight like he was a god figure. Peaceful but could be ruthless when needed. His voice, the honey-coloured gentleness that made my mother melted the first time they met each other at the hospital.

I remembered she used to rub my cheek as she recalled the moments. Her thumb trail a figure-8 pattern for infinity as she cooed. I pressed myself into the warmth of her hand and wished that I could stay in the moment forever.

“You and your father look at two drops of water.” She said.

I never said anything back to her. I spent all my childhood thinking how disappointed my father would be if he was still alive. Disappointed of me, his son, a weird clown.