I intended to post this in conjunction with this morning’s post, since they are a pair of sorts, but was distracted by other more immediate things. I can’t believe it’s been six years since I wrote this piece. A lifetime.
His Little Girl
A word that always meant so little
suddenly means so much.
Even to call him a word reeks of how unreal he has become.
There are no illusions
No baseball games
No high school dances
Or father daughter camping trips
No man to give the bride away
A missing piece that never mattered
A piece that leaves me, a little girl, unsteady
A wineglass teetering on an edge
Losing its balance
Losing its base
No sweet sixteen party
No college bon vayages
Just me waiting, him walking
Never walking my way
Never letting me see his face
No daunting man to bully dates
To set curfews so I beg and plead
No lingering scent of stale cologne
Or heavy coats lay upon the living room chair
How silly it is to feel a need for this man
As though nineteen years should pass before the hollowness inside
Who needs him?
The phrase slaps at my temples
A wave shattering upon jagged rocks
I have certainly never needed him
I was different
A girl who could make it on her own
So very wrong
foolish, angry thoughts
they buried the need
yet they buried it with its heart still beating
The earth always shifts
And truth is lifted
Gladly I would bury this craving
Void of strength I sit and weep
On bended knees i’m broken
It’s there that I meet him.
Having finally found my father,
who will teach me to be a daughter?
To be still
To allow myself to be loved