APE Inspired Essay-My Father and I

My father is not my brother. In fact, I never had a brother before, but I imagined—if I did—he would agree that my father and I were total opposites. My father is a quiet man, I am a chatterbox.

We both have the same dark brown eyes, same round head, same black hair. I imagined that when he was younger, we looked alike. But, he is slightly taller than I am, hands more callous, and grey strands have started to appear on his head. 

He often says i’m wasting food, judging by the amount of scraps left on my plate. His plate was always clean.

My father prefers to be still, I prefer to move around. It didn’t matter if I was going to see my friends or make a quick trip to buy some food, he was always irritated when I tell him i’m leaving.

He loves to buy imitations—watches, bags, electronics—not because he was cheap, but because he thought all the real branded stuff were unnecessarily overpriced. Sometimes, I detest his behavior to buy fakes. For my 17th birthday, he gave me an analog watch as a gift—an imitation. He said the watch was just as durable as the real one, said the glass was impervious to scratches and cracks. A week later the first scratch, then a crack rooted its way through the glass three months later.

He hates waiting. He always says, “I don’t like to wait for people, and I don’t like people waiting for me,” although there have been countless times he left me waiting for an hour after school. And that’s another thing about my dad: He hates to be wrong.

I admit it hurts to be wrong, to have your values and actions scrutinized, but when you are wrong; the best you can do is to apologize, swallow your pride, and shy away. But my father hated the idea of being wrong. It showed weakness. And so, he convinced himself that he could never be subjected to error. I always sought to expose his errors.

Sometimes he sees my tears, but turns away instead of laying his arms around my shoulders. He cries too. In silence. 

We both love watching movies, especially comedies. And when my dad laughs, he emits a distinctive loud high-pitched sound, that resonates around the room. His laugh is so infectious that I find myself laughing with him even if I don’t get the joke.  

My father is not my brother. Sometimes I ask myself what does “Father and Son” mean? Would we be better off more similar than different?

My mother showed me a picture of my dad holding a baby. His arms tenderly wrapping the child’s fragile frame. My father looked calm and delighted as oppose to how stern he looks these days. That child was me. I realized he loves me because I’m his son, his flesh and blood, his imitation, but I am not sure why I love him. I wonder if he has loved me less since the day that picture was taken.