In my childhood, my father was absent from my life.
I dreamt about him and gave him heroic status.
He was an explorer, submariner, western hero
and a general in the foreign legion; I never saw
him as a fireman though, children tend to see
them as heroes. Needless to say, the slothish
town constable was a figure of fear and contempt
representing authority, vengeance and injustice.
When I finally met my father he had bad breath
and nicotine-stained fingers. I rejected reality
and went on looking for the real one, till I was old
and I had to admit he must be dead by now.
I look into the mirror and sigh, no doubt he must
have looked like me, melancholy is my name.
