my father’s eyes

I think I don’t have a recent picture of me and my father, alone. The last one is from 10 years ago, I was on my way to university, he was… ok. I sometimes wonder what affected me the most: his existence, or his non-existence? I used to have this conflictual relationship with him, we hardly talked and our tastes didn’t match one bit. But somewhere deep inside I felt like I knew him, I think I inherited from him the same taste for life and the same tendency to imprudence, maybe the same naivety. When he was gone… my whole world collapsed. He was not, not anymore, the man I had to obey, he was…. my father.
I sometimes remember the life before, the life with him. I guess he was a guarantee for what my world was. For Home. Three years later, I still cry when I remember him. He would have been 61 today. And I guess missing him wouldn’t go away. Never.