Daddies

I have two daddies. Not in a California, Vote-Yes-On-Prop-8 kind of way. In a complicated sort of way.

The father I've known my whole life, Victor, is an amazing man. I am proud of him, and take every opportunity to allow the words "Air Traffic Controller of the Year, 1993" to escape my mouth. See? I just did it again. He met my mother when I was only 18 months old, and married her when I was 2. This man did not have to be the father he was to me. He loved me unconditionally, never favored my sister, who was his daugter biologically, and cried as he walked me down the aisle at my wedding. I was always and forever his little girl, bloodlines be damned.

My biological father, of whom I have very few pictures, and none in digital form, was Chris Walls. My mother's high school sweetheart, and a man who, I've heard, was incredibly amazed with his little girl. The Lord called him home when I was 19 days shy of my first birthday. I have virtually no memories, and those I do have could very well be invented memories born from pictures I've seen and stories I've heard. I have a copy of Alice in Wonderland, his favorite book, with a note from my grandmother telling me so. I have a copy of Treasure Island with the name "Christopher Walls" written inside. I have a photo album that shows me the orgins of faces I make, smiles I've seen in the mirror, and hair that gives me trouble on a daily basis. It is an interesting feeling, to have a father one has never met. There is no sense of grief, persay, becasue one cannot grieve for what one has never known. There is, however, a sense of loss, or, more appropriatly, of a missing piece that I will never get to know. I feel almost cheated out of meeting this man. So many people, my mother, my grandmother, my aunts and uncles and cousins, have memories of him, while I, his daughter, have none. It is like only knowing half of where you come from, while the other half is clouded in mystery.

It is a complicated emotion. I love my father more than anything in this world, and I would not trade him. How does one grieve the lost peices of her heritage while not undermining the love she has for the man who raised her? I have asked myself if I would trade what I have for the ability to know Chris, but quickly abandoned the question because I realized it's pointless. Whether I would or not is irrelevant. I have been dealt this hand, and nothing changes it, whether I would will it or not.

His death cannot, because of my age at the time, pain me, although as I have grown older, there has come an unfamiliar ache and occasional, unexplainable tears when I thnk of this man who gave me parts of who I am and was then called away so suddenly.

I call myself blessed. Two men loved this little girl, and two men formed who she would become. God has given me a blessing in this, if sometimes a bittersweet one.

If any of his family read this, I would ask for your memories. I have none of my own that would allow me to know him, and if you have them, I would accept with utmost gratitude. I also hope that my ability to be candid does not offend or anger. It has taken me a long time to find the ability to put these thoughts into words, and my ability to write far outdoes my ability to speak.

If you have memories that I can borrow, email me rpyates516@gmail.com