A trip to Spain with my dad

 

When my father holds the petite chain, it gets buried in the crevices of his large hands. He fidgets at the clasp with futility. I hold my hair up for longer than a while, before I take it and put it on myself. It's awful and gaudy and gold. He's never been a girl before.

We share being the thirdborn. We share being sons, I suspect he's always known that. I am endeared by the necklace anyway. He always stops by a jewelry store and picks something up for me, my other sisters, but mostly me. We once faced each other, like bad mirrors, I mimicked him as he taught me how to tie a tie. He has been siphoning orange-flavored vodka into my little body since I was young. We talk about movies, though we haven't watched one together in years. He orders two cervecitas before I enter the bar. We cheers to 15 minutes of togetherness in 24 hours of life. I can only bear to see him for so long. I chose a shirt for him recently. I'd wear it too. I secretly like seeing is face in mine. When I put my hair up, stowing the extra locks, I am the spitting image of him as a boy. He wanted to act, but would not develop nor overcome his stutter in time.

We're venturing into someone's homeland— a Spanish great grandfather who died far before his time. The sun in the south of Spain is hotter than anything I've felt before. It illuminates our hair, reveals my father's reddish-brown hair. About fifteen percent of him is here. We're not connected to this land, but something rings. I take billions of pictures of him and examine them and imitate his smile