I tried to be him. I learned to punch a speed bag. Lifted weights, jumped rope, and threw good punches, but it seems the closer I get to my idea of him, the further I’ve lost me. I’m buried somewhere behind his Archie comics and mountain of grandchildren who beat me to him. He loved us all, but only found time in the order of our own lives.

I blame my parents for that, but I often wonder if it was me. A person can only blame their parents until it stops making sense. Two people can’t be to blame for everything their child missed unless they went out of their way to remove him.

Asking if they removed me is pointless. They pulled me so far from their lives that I’m a stranger in my own family. When most guys say little to none, I can’t leave the house without saying,”Let’s go,” in five languages. I prefer chopsticks, but everyone around uses forks. Waking up at 3 AM is a side effect of the jet lag I’ll have until the day I die because bed just isn’t comfortable.

The longer I think about it, I see that the more I try to be him, the more I never knew myself. Who can you be when you are a collection of pieces from different puzzles? Some of my sides are jagged, while others smooth, and they are supposed to fit together.

And that’s why I try to be him. I’m misshapen puzzle. Superglue only works when the pieces fit.

And I guess that’s who I am. That’s why other are confused by me. I confuse myself.