Sylvia Wynter's Dream

by Blaire Santos | 1st October, 2023 | Writing Prompt 1

^{Bernard Santos, Cassie Zetina (sister), Brodam Santos (brother); Blaire Santos}

My father and I were a funeral duo. If he knew I was going to one, he would show up, find me, and sit beside me. During the tender but rather extensive reflection that was the eulogy for Uncle Mike, Daddy leaned over and whispered, “Blaire, noh mek mine so l-lang. Me noh want no lang b-boring eulogy. Seh ‘ih mi love ih daughter and ih farm,’ a-and that’s it! Thing done!” Between our inappropriate giggles, I patted his rough, dry hands that seemed cemented by his work as an architectural engineer, and I mentioned my big brother, Brodam. Daddy said, “Okay, ih pikni and ih farm,” and we laughed again.

For Daddy’s own funeral in December 2020, I wrote the eulogy, but one of his friends read it. I could hear his spit echoing in the mic, escaping an ill-fitting mask. If people wore their masks properly, Daddy might not have died. I heard the reader laugh at the part about Daddy’s favourite beef and okra soup that was supposed to make his words slip out despite his stammer. But all the jokes I’d written drowned in the tears that congealed into a mass of mucus at the back of my throat, and I wondered, did he die like this?

As a self-labelled “Professional Father” with an endearing habit of penning letters to communicate his feelings, he wrote,

“I believe that my responsibility to you is being a father. My definition of responsibility is having the ability to respond … I am responsible to God for your protection and to see you mature and grow into a positive human being. I am past the stage of ‘if a, could a, should a,’ and all the other ifs. If something terrible happens to you, no number of good excuses will change what has happened. People are not computers, and there is no undo or redo button to press …”

Santos, Bernard. “I Remain Your Father.” 26 Nov. 2009. Letter to Blaire Santos, Personal Collection.

He took his job as a professional father quite seriously and he was always there for those he considered his children, biological or otherwise.

And perhaps, this is why he responded to me in my dreams after his passing. He told me loving things in ways only he could say. However, he also warned me about people, dates, and facts that I could not have otherwise known. This went on for months until, in a nightmare about rising floodwaters, he let me go, saying, “I can’t cross the river anymore, but I’m meeting some friends soon.” I awoke in agony—the pain of knowing he was gone. Gone, gone! His final words also coated me in dread. I wrote down his last, ambiguous message, which became the poem, “Pictures Of My Father,” on the second anniversary of his death.

This poem is not based on photographs of my father and me. It is about the vivid mental images of all the fathers I saw lowered into the ground while Daddy stood by my side. Regrettably, his last words were not false. There are updates; other fathers I have mourned. Men I grieve daily.