“My Father Skim Read” by Grace 11C

My father skim read He skipped lines, pages, chapters even His fingers were bumpy, his joints bubbled with arthritis His nails concave with age, deep ridges engraved on the crescent surface He ran his finger, calloused and wrinkled, down the spine of the book, focused on only what he wanted to He kept this outlook with most things in life He skipped parts of movies, only ate his favourite part of his meal, only paid attention to the parts of my life that didn’t need his full focus

To him, I was like background music. A distantly familiar melody that he’d hum along to every now and then. He would tap his foot to the beat but never got up and danced with the rhythm. Part of my song that he listened to were my grades Such a minute part of life that he tuned into He tapped his foot when I did well, he turned the volume down when I didn’t He even leant towards my speaker to hear my results

My font was big and clear yet he was still too far sighted to read it. He didn’t strain his eyes or put glasses on. I made sure my words were evenly spaced. I took notes on what he read the most and made sure to write about it more and more. I shaped my text in an attempt to please him. He just bent the tip of my page and left my book abandoned on the coffee table. Every time he put my book down, I lost more of myself. I lost a few of my pages, ripped out due to frustration. I began to look at others to read my book. I flaunted my text, I changed my cover and left my book wide open for everyone to read. I begged and begged for anyone to read me

Someone started to read my book. He wasn’t like my father, his hands were youthful and gentle. He was careful to not bend my spine and gently smoothed down my pages. He took the time to sit down and gave his full attention to reading every single word slowly and carefully. He didn’t mind that my font changed, he didn’t mind that a few of my pages were missing. He was soft and gentle, cautious but caring.

He got to a point in my book where nothing made sense He leant forward in his chair, squinted and readjusted his eyes He gripped the arms of the chair, creased the plush cushion beneath his strong hold He changed his glasses, gently wiped them with his soft cotton shirt. No matter what he did, he just couldn’t understand. I would rip more and more pages out, a feeble attempt to try to get him to understand my jumbled and confusing writing. There was barely any left to me.

He soon got sick of my book He tossed my empty cover back onto the couch and walked away I always hoped he just went to clear his head After he left, I flaunted more I knew what it felt like to be read, I chased the feeling of first being read again I needed the attention and it felt as though my worth was based off of it

Someone started to read me again It didn’t feel the same I will never have the thrill of the first read ever again I needed more No one was ever as attentive or charismatic as my first read Instead of looking for the right reader, I looked for the most readers I altered my chapters for each reader. I crafted a delicate balance between them. In the meantime, I lost the plot. I had no idea what I was reading, I barely recognised myself I had changed myself so much for people that didn’t know me I started to think I was someone, something, I wasn't I needed to get back to who I was

I printed more pages, made myself whole again. I had a consistent flow, but still kept the jumbled pages. I still had my creased spine and bent pages, but I learnt that the jumbled and messy pages are what makes every book whole. My creased spine and bent pages show just how far I’ve come. Everyone starts with gaps and inconsistency, everyone has their flaws but they fill with time and age I never again looked for anyone to read my pages, not my father, not my mother, not a stranger My cover was strong and pristine I didnt flaunt my text or leave my book open. I was reading and living for myself. I had rewritten myself in a way that even I enjoyed reading.

My father still skim reads His rugged hands, spotted with sun spots and freckles, will never pick up my book and fully read it However, even he, a far sighted, cold man, can still see change He takes notice of my new cover, my consistent and neat pages He nods and smiles, and that is all I need I don’t chase for his attention, a nod or smile is appreciated, but not chased after I am continuing my book for myself, with or without anyone else