Dad's Skin

I inherited dad's skin the minute that I was born. It was bound up next to my mother as she held me close to her breast. She took me home wrapped in it.

My father died two months before I left my mother's womb. His will, delivered by a mute gentleman in a black suit, was an unexpected surprise not only due to the treasures it bequeathed but due to its very existence. My mother had no idea that her sea-faring husband had the foresight to create such a document.

The document itself, words scrawled on ancient parchment, decreed many a strange thing particularly pertaining to my life and his gift to me. In the will, my father asked that his skin be peeled from his bones and tanned, preserving its weathered, war-torn look and its many tattoos from far off lands so that it may guide me through life in whatever way it could.

At birth, I was to use his skin as my swaddling clothes and my mother was to drape it on my crib as I slept, the nautical stars beaming back at me the value of the north star.

As I took my first steps, it was to be the floor that would hold my legs and to keep me safe. When in trouble, it was to be the shroud to hide my shame.

As the years added up, it was to be the respite for my first heartbreak, used to soak up my tears. On the night of my deflowering, it was to be the bed to catch my seed as it dripped from between my lover's legs.

On the day of my greatest success in life, I was to wear it under my clothing for power. On the day of my mother's death, I was to wear it like a caul to provide me a sanctuary to reflect on the life of the one whom I knew the best.

On the occasion of the birth of my son, I was to use the tattoos to spin tales of far off places and strange lands, always sharing the value of the polestar. It would be his first costume come Halloween to celebrate his grandfather's memory as the veil between the worlds grew thinner.

In the document, there was one last request involving dad's skin. On the occasion of death seeking me for his own, I was to wear dad's skin to die like a man. It was his greatest gift as his absence denied me the affection my mother said he would have showered upon me and the fortitude to become a champion as he was.

I look forward to the night that I wear dad's skin, looking for death to find me ready for him. Ready for the veil to lift and for my father to gather me up in his white light, his skin a sail that will escort us to fiddler's green.