Figment in a fingerprint
...A dispatch from bewilderness
I am a figment of your imagination. No, I am a figment of mine. I know, I know, I am, of course, the result of a physical act between two humans. But that is not essence, it’s flesh and bones.
I had essence once. It was in my head. Behind my eyes, between my ears. Essence. You don’t know what you’ve lost ‘til it’s gone, or in the case of brain damage, you just don’t know.
In Douglas Adams’ book, A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Arthur Dent caught a spaceship for a cosmic ride off Earth.
On board the ship, things seemed pretty strange. For example, the sea remained stationary and the buildings waved up and down; Arthur lost a few limbs; his friend, Ford, turned into a penguin, and a whale fell out of the sky.
Just at that moment, Deep Thought, the world’s largest computer, produced the answer to life, the universe, and everything. The answer was: 42. But there was a problem. The problem was: No one knew the question.
“Ford Galaxy” was the name of my first car, when I lived on another planet, or might as well have, in another century. It had tail fins and was bronze and belonged to my father. Then he died and I drove the Galaxy.
My father asked me nothing and told me nothing. I knew very little about him and even less from him. Did he like peaches or apples? Did he have a favorite place? A favorite scent? A favorite season? A favorite writer? A favorite book? A favorite poem?
I hoped for years to interest my father. It didn’t seem to work. I never called him Dad. But if he is somewhere somehow reading or sensing these words, I want to say, I love you, Dad.
you sure seem like strong essence to me, Judith. otherwise your words would not ring so clearly, through the fog of regularity. I hear you loud and clear.
I didn't know my father either. must be a bunch of us.
Thank you for reading my work — and for sharing it.