My father is old, and life is a cowardly lover. I am what remains of him. I have his eyes and
his nose, and he wants to give me his mind.
Perceptions of Potential
By Olivia Sheftall
Potential is a point on a graph, placed at (∞, ∞)—a plane shooting up, determinedly straight, to reach infinite. We craft machines with grand wings because that’s the closest we’ll ever get to flight.
My father is old, and life is a cowardly lover. I am what remains of him. I have his eyes and his nose, and he wants to give me his mind. I itch for wisdom. He is the only one I trust to annotate my brain. To take pen to cerebrum and underline profound neurons, cross out what I should purge.
With a sun-dried finger, he conducts his great symphony titled “What is Happiness?” It is his life’s work.
The rise is where our nature brings us joy, or so I’m told. If I keep reaching for that point, I will experience consistent happiness. In short, I am in total control, and that is both a relief and a burden.
(A little girl waddles along the pool deck, pale skin and baby fat wrapped in a towel. I never noticed how beautiful a toddler’s walk is. So unrehearsed, so immediate, so different from my own. With each step, they are an exponential function spearing through the graph paper like Icarus into the Sun. Happiness comes so easy to them.)
I am inspired by what could be.
My father is at a point in his life where there is very little mystery in the future. I wonder if he's happy, if he feels he's reaching his potential. I can't tell if he's filled with a dissatisfaction with the world or with himself. Perhaps, because he's been told from his birth that he is made for excellence, he sees the world as chains clasped around his wrists. His choices, that have led him to a life he wouldn't choose, reflect exterior fault—they should never be traced back to his own hands, even when they are stained red.
He wants to save me, and in doing so, save himself.
What is wisdom but a constant beating from experience? Suffering takes you by the hair and teaches you a lesson, shoves the cold hard truth down your throat.
This is to say, happiness does not mean leading a life with no slings and throws. Quite the opposite. He warns me that staying in the humid atmosphere of ignorance will keep me soft and unscathed, but trap me in a suffocating dissatisfaction which trumps any battle scar. I have a deep faith in his word, but that does not mean I will take his advice.
As a human being, when I am given the answer, it is my responsibility to ignore it. My father has spent 73 years ignoring his, indulging himself at every corner, and in turn, denying his soul. Like every naïve child, I am determined to be the exception. I crawl out of my skin, using my ribs as a ladder, and I escape through my words. I am bound by nothing but my potential.
About the Author...
Olivia Sheftall is a junior at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She’s a passionate writer of all genres but takes a special interest in personal essays and screenplays. Sheftall has been in numerous spoken word performances, including Coffee House 2023, and is very involved within her community in Jacksonville, Florida. Her work has been published in Élan twice, as well as in Poetry Out Loud Gets Original.
About the Artist...
Leo Bowyer is a 12th grade Visual Artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. His favorite medium to work with is acrylic paint.