Daddy, where are you? Can you be of any help to me in the present debacle, transforming it into what it might be, a transformation rather than a disaster? How should I cope with the sad coincidences between my life and yours against which I have to struggle? In spite of your virtual disappearance in my sixteenth year, the fruits planted by my relationship with you live on and I struggle, with the help of my mother and sisters, my companions whom you left to fend for ourselves, to harvest those fruits.

Ironically, the consummate opportunity to actualise those fruits has meant that I have had to almost mimic what you did in virtually leaving us to fend for ourselves and escaping to England. Mimicking, since having learnt from your lesson I struggle to make sure I don’t go the full route, but the appearance seems like that. Are we cursed to enter into such domestic disintegrations, leaving those we have nurtured to that point to care for themselves at the point when the time to harvest the years of joint struggle emerges? Or is it simply that the shock waves of your own actions are still impacting on my life, leading to developments in my life that are similar to those in yours? How can the cycle be broken? By an effort to break it literally by refusing to do anything that resembles what you did or or would that be a trap to lead me to debilitating outcomes where one is caught in the web of those possibilities one had tried to escape from?
So much to say but I am not in the mood to say it all. But I expect that you, who are now one of the ancestors, can see what I do not say, can see it all? That could be one way of explaining those dreams where you demonstrate a solicitude you did not show when we walked the earth together, in which you seem to try to alert me to the challenges posed by the breaches ,the tears in the wall of flesh formed by our line, as you revealed to me the humbled feet incongruous beneath your outer dignity.

Paterfamilias. Perhaps you reach beyond the wall of time to demonstrate honesty about the feet of clay which we do not reveal to our offspring, pretending instead to a confidence and certainty we have no right to assume.