Asi, asi, asi

I was born to play the guitar. I’m sure of it. Before I was even born, I have often wondered, how many days my father must have played his songs so that I would come out into the world knowing them. Or did he even know he was listening? My father walked in on my birth, and he cursed me with vague, artistic words: este va’cer algo. I still don’t know if it means that I’m supposed to do something or if I’m supposed to be someone. I never got any more direction or instruction. Not even to play guitar. When I was a kid, I’d ask how, and my father would play three chords and say, “Asi, asi, asi,” and then he would walk away angrily.

When other people look at me, I only see the confidence they think they’re looking at, but they’re looking at that phrase, whatever it means, that I’m supposed be living up to it. When I was little, when I was a teenager, when I was a young man, and now that I’m old: Este va a hacer algo has haunted me. It’s not inherited, and it’s not passed on. It manifested when I came into being, and ever since I’ve been hoping for the best.

Music

My brother and I ran from the rain once. A dull drumroll played across the dirt road. We held hands and ran for our lives. It was just rain, but I was in first grade and he was in kindergarten.

Early one morning, I woke up and walked outside because I could hear something faster than that raining drumroll. Even quieter than the rain, but so distinct. Butterflies by the thousands paraded over the trees, through the alley and left me in awe. When they settled onto the branches and leaves, I walked up to one and listened to its wings.

In a scrubby forest in South Texas, from my tent, the birds took turns announcing the day was coming. First the cardinals, then the jays or mockingbirds, and finally the mourning doves confirmed that the day had begun.

On One Hand

If all I had were Wednesdays, I was going to prove that I would be there so much it was like I had never been gone. No man would replace me in the eyes of my children. Even if I wasn’t living up to what I thought a dad was supposed to be, I was not going to let anyone replace me.

I had left no room to fail. My success was a fat smile on my face. I had left no room for anyone else. No room for the kids of my future partners. I didn’t know how to give them anything without feeling like I was betraying my children.

I can count on one hand the number of times I missed out on something for my own children. And on the other hand, I can count the number of children I ignored. If there’s a reason to drink, that’s not it. Slowly, I am learning how to admire a child who is not my blood. The humiliating truth behind my own ignorance. How could my own children look up to me after this?