I never knew my father, but I see him pass in every window reflection. Collar turned to the wind, he bumbles towards the book store with a coffee shop upstairs. I'm entombed in literature and fellow hermits. We become non-existence for all moments but this; as we hunch over scalding cappuccinos, eyes darting to each other semi-covertly, for once hopeful of human contact.

I never knew my father. He died of lung cancer before memories bloomed, in the space between the womb and indoctrination. All traces of him are left in trinkets, soap-preserved hair fibres in a shaving mug, and ripples of gravitational waves. He tells me that I have a place, without ever saying a word. And, he never tells me off for smoking.

I never knew my father. He was a military man and belonged to the Salvation Army. I don't think we'd see eye-to-eye now, but perhaps he would have saved me from my artist's starvation; with my bleeding heart pouring pointlessly into each and every gutter. I would have walked with more of a stride than a fluster, and call out names to the streets, without ever caring for consequence.

I never knew my father, but I met him once. I met him in the caverns of mind, as I swung around with a flashlight; hoping to find meaning in meditation. He held my shoulders as I fell to sobs, as I told him I missed him, as I told him I was lost. To that he just smiled and said:

“You're already there.”