The Man With Half A Face

So, there's this man. I see him almost every Sunday in church. He usually makes his way in after I'm already seated, but almost always sits where I can directly see him, his profile anyway...the part that matters. His face is never hidden behind people. This man is always in plain view to me. He's always in front of me, but to the side. Although he sits in different spots every Sunday...it's always the same. I look...stare actually, my heart swells, my eyes smile, then I reprimand myself for letting myself go there, at which point my eyes burn, and my stomach turns. I don't want to get caught, surely that would make me seem insane, I just want to look, to take it all in...to let myself pretend, if just for a moment. I know it's not healthy, it hurts, but in some sick way it makes him feel closer too. It's bittersweet, to stare at this man. I wonder what he would do if one day I raised my hand and touched his face, or wrapped my arms around him and laid my head on his chest. The differences are subtle, subtle enough that if I purposely blur my vision when I'm looking I wouldn't be able to tell the difference, that is, if I didn't know the difference. His hair is the same color, but straight. The cut and length are the same. His skin, a little less weathered and whiter than it should be. His nose, HA...his nose. When he smiles or laughs, I smile, because it's a smile I know, although when I knew it, it wasn't this man that was wearing it. The resemblance is uncanny. And I know each time I'm staring at him, the person I'm imagining him to be, is probably staring at me, shaking his head, telling me to invest in a good shrink. But to him I say, "I know Dad...I know I'm crazy, but I really do wish it were you."