Christina Walsh

Dad, my Hero

The few happy times I had as a child with my father were precious, beyond gracious, glorious, bittersweet, and paramount. I loved the summer when I was 8, I spent with my father when my mean mother left. I was hoping she would never come back. It was just dad and me. Dad was a carpenter and sometimes, he would take me to work with him. I could smell the fresh wood. He would pack a huge hearty lunch so I was not hungry or going without. Dad made things fun for me. I loved it when it was just the two of us, no interruptions, no chaos, no abuse happening, only safety, protection, and unconditional love experienced. I was a stressed child because of all the abuse and neglect I suffered at the hands of my mother, her brother, and others in the family. When I was with dad, it was a breath of fresh air. I knew I was loved, I felt his love. I knew I would be well-fed and receive his quality time and affection. All I wanted was to be with dad when I was little and most of my life growing up. He would cook hearty meals, teach me to ride a bike, skate, and swim. Dad would build a swingset from his own hands in the backyard: 2 swings: one for me and one for a friend. Dad made sure he used enough rope and was a rope I can hang onto in my childhood I could keep with me. Once, the swing broke and I flew across the backyard. Dad was there to care for me straight away, hugging me, cleaning my wounds, being a true father. I took in all his time, all his love. When dad hugged me, I felt the world was my oyster. He would say "you're some smart" with a huge smile in his heart and a twinkle in his light brown eyes.