When I was young, my dad taught me to catch flies in my hands, rather than swat them away.
‘It’ll make them fly away,’ he said. ‘Trust me.’ And I did. I was his daughter after all.
I realise now, I follow a lot of the advice my father gave me. Even though I’ve spent the majority of my life making a point not to do so.
But my father lives behind my eyes. He views the world through a lens he has passed down to someone who has inherited his cynicism and callousness.
And I look through like a telescope, twisting it to find a new view that he hasn’t chosen for me. But the only view that is clear is the one he has specifically selected.
I see the stars in the night sky looking through his lens. They look like fireflies if I adjust it. Blurred, and scarily unknown, but my own.
Even still, I drive roughly on rubble roads; I get quietly cruel when I’m angry; I’m a bad team player at board games; I catch flies in my hands.
And it keeps them away.
Instead of swatting at the annoying things, I grab at them. I imagine the fear of their world caving into darkness for a creature so small.
Maybe that’s why I don’t speak to my father anymore.
He caught me a few too many times.
Cassandra Wylie,
Melbourne, Victoria
Cassandra is a Melbourne-based writer and uni student who enjoys writing on themes of autonomy, morality, human connection and identity.
