My Right Leg - A Fictional Story

My father was standing on the edge of the motorway by his car, Esperada, with a plastic bottle/container in his hand. Obviously hoping someone would pick him up. I was on my motorcycle, with helmet on covering my face. I stopped next to him without identifying myself. "You ran out of gas?" I asked. "Yes." he said. "Hop on." My father got on to the back of the motor without recognizing me. We had not seen each other for 5 years. Nor had we spoken during all that time. The last time we had a little hug was at my mother's funeral. Afterwards, without anything had actually happened between us, we had somehow left longer and longer gaps between phone calls, until the communication stopped altogether. I noticed how he lower his head to protect himself from the wind, and without a doubt, he had rested his gaze and noted the raised platform of my right shoe. As I have my right leg a bit shorter than my left. My father had talked to me many times in the past about the shock and unhappiness when, soon after my birth, the doctors revealed to my parents this news. I had the feeling they felt guilty for the lack of those few centimetres on my right leg, or the few centimetres too many on my left; depends how one sees it. I never did find out which of the two was the defected one. I rode on with great nimbleness, weaving in and out between other cars, with movements at times could be considered imprudence. I sensed that my father, despite his usual shyness with any physical contact with other people, had held on to my shoulder with his left hand, while his right was holding the plastic bottle pressing it tighter again his thigh. I also knew he hadn't stopped staring at the extra high sole and heel of my right shoe, doubtless wondering if I was his son. Perhaps remembering the succession of medical sessions and endless X-Rays, examinations and consultations, to finally arrive at the simplest solution: putting supplement to balance out the different lengths of my legs. Then he executed a barely notable gentle squeeze of my shoulder, which could have been interpreted as a show of affection. To which I did not respond. We arrived at the garage where he got off. I told him I couldn't take him back to his car, and he replied that I shouldn't worry, that he would find somebody. I noticed his effort trying hard to see my face through the eyeshade of the helmet, so steamed up and blurred. That night, the telephone rang in my house, twice, but cut off when I picked it up ... Tags:father.son,rightleg

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