Haarlem, 25 June 2020

Dear Yaron,

Welcome to the world my lovely son. At 2 years, you seem to be having a strong will of your own, bordering on stubbornness. Like your mother, you are operating independently just fine. God only knows who and what you will turn into, but whatever the result, know that I love you.

I trust you will be able to find your you, your path, your calling, occupation or whatever it will be you value in life, your love in and for life.

Also, you are a curious mind, just like your dad, and that’s why I’d like to tell you about the world as I came to know it, where you’re coming from, my bizarre life’s path and what I hope you will learn from all this.

By the time you’re reading this you might already have come across the realisation that life isn’t always fair. You can’t always get what you want, the Stones song goes. That is if you know what you want. According to some philosophers there is no free will. We are all a meatball floating through space, dictated by gravity laws and such, so to speak. I find that too…unpoetic, by lack of a better word. The soul sings. That is my experience anyway. Not that I know what I want, at least not in the conventional way. But a life guided by external forces seems just too cold to me.

My hope is that you will be spared the bad luck your father sometimes had to endure, but more so also the often lazy and too often defeatist attitude of your dad. Oh, flaws, there are many.

But there are also good things, even a few great things, in this life.

Freedom, just to name one. The fact you can walk around this Earth independently, smell freshly mowed grass, eat an apple, or pancakes with brown sugar, listen to music that makes your spine go funny, being in love for the very first time, making you walk on clouds.

Dream out loud. Think (but not too much). Love (can never be too much).

Tomorrow is going to be an early day. Another hot one. The last one for now. A pappa dag, daddy day. I will prepare the swimming pool for you, I know you have been enjoying them so much the last few days at nursery.

Sleep well, as you are now. Shhhhh.


I enter the hospital room and there he is, sitting up straight in his bed with his bald head hanging low into his hands. Even though I can’t see his face, his thin long fingers reveal his bones. He doesn’t seem to notice me.

Outside the room on the hallway are my mother and his second current wife, the both of them holding guard. They close the door behind me. I get closer to him and whisper his name. Slowly he raises his head.

The illness had eaten away his temples and cheeks, his eyes were some bulging marbles hanging in caves next to his still prominent but thinned nose. Not much was left of his neck and his mouth revealed his teeth even through his skin.

Yet upon noticing me his eyes light up. He mentions my name and a faint smile appears on his thin lips. He says something about how glad he is that I came to visit. I keep on looking at him knowing it will be the last time.

Here is the man who adopted me as a baby with his then wife, my mother now sitting outside on the hallway, and after they got divorced continued to be a welcoming man. In summer I often would spend my school holiday with him and his second wife and their son. I remember him walking around the house naked, visitors or not. He would be sitting on some rattan chair reading a book and I would be wondering how painful that must feel. More so, I would be reading one of his many comic books. From Robert Crumb for example, prompting me to think of my father as Mister Natural and his infinite meditation sessions, or from Heavy Metal, the science fiction magazine containing my first female fantasy, making me not wanting to join in and walk around the house naked myself. I felt as embarrassed as excited.

This was only a couple of years ago and now here I am, not even 16 years old, looking at Mister Natural in his hospital bed soon to be rolling out his meditation rug for eternity. I know how much he has been in pain the last couple of months and how he must be delirious from the morphine in his body. But that faint smile he just gave was genuine and so is the glimmer in his eyes looking at me. It is as if he is now more naked than ever before and all I can see is his soul, smiling at me forever.

Maybe the man with the hat is my real father. Hiding behind his newspaper four seats away in the train. I spoke with him over the phone a couple of weeks ago, but all I had was this tiny photograph of him. His face was pushed half out of the picture frame by me, a two-year old smiling white-haired chubber. His half-face, dressed with a neatly trimmed beard and metal-framed glasses seems absent, as if he knows this will be the last time he sees me. It is over fifteen years later now, and I am on my way to meet him. I am looking at the square picture my mother only recently gave to me, as if it were a secret file released by a collapsed regime revealing personal stuff from the past.

All I did was ask my mother who my father was a couple of months ago when I saw her at the birthday. She wrote his name on a piece of paper together with his phone number. After that she sent the picture by post.

I look at the picture again. It really is tiny. My mother must have taken it, which might explain his absent look as well. It really didn’t work between the two.

Who is he? What does he look like now? He could also be on his way home to meet me coming from my direction. Will he recognise me? Parents should have a natural gift for that.

The man with the hat looks at me. Nervously I look away. It is not him. I can tell, because I don’t feel anything, at least not recognition.

low light

low light

The empty landscape passes by outside. It is a mild November day and the low sun casts a warm orange-yellow light through the train carriage. A bunch of kids, probably my age, are chatting and laughing, but I don’t hear them.

Upon arrival at the station I merge into the crowd. It is a Saturday and people seem very excited. I get into the tram and manage to get a seat. By now, it has turned dark outside.

Inside the tram I see all faces. This little kid is looking at me, his mum staring outside. Could he tell I am on my way to meet my father? I must look suspicious. No need to worry, I tell myself, soon all will be clear. Weather my father is a wealthy man, an intellectual, an overaged hippy or some bum, it shouldn’t matter. At least I know then and I can move on.

A sudden wind blows in my face when I turn the corner walking into his street. The tall apartment houses on one side of the street are overlooking a canal and an open space on the other side. The rhythmic street lights throw a dark orange light onto the row houses. In one of them my father lives. I look at the piece of paper again my mother gave to me, on which I had added his home address, and checked the number.

Door after door, window after window, the number slowly increases and after about a minute or so I reach the right number. It is not a door facing the street, rather it is a portal with steps upwards towards a little hallway with four doors next to each other. His name is on the right door. I put the piece of paper away and try to imagine what he looks like. I am more nervous than ever before, but manage to suddenly push the doorbell.

At first it stays quiet. I swallow. Then, a gentle ruffle sounds and a hall light goes on. Footsteps reveal a nature not that different than mine. The door opens and the bright light blinds me with me just coming from the dark outside. I can see the silhouette of a person my size and slowly the face of the man from the picture appearing on it. The voice I heard on the telephone asks me if I had a good journey and if I prefer tea or coffee.