Dear Dad

Dear Dad,

In one way, I haven’t seen you in two months. The day I picked you up on the side of the road in New Orleans. I only saw you for 19 minutes because that is how long it took to drive you to the airport to catch a flight I asked mom to get for you to go stay with your caviling family in Tennessee. I hated the thought of you going there. I could picture the soft grins you would receive served with a quick up-down glance. I gave you a hug when you got out of the car and those words, “Love you princess”, fell off your lips. I smiles and sent you off while swallowing cold heavy stones so you wouldn’t see me cry. Then you leave. A small bag in your hand and a smaller one on your back- those holding your only belongings.

In another way, I saw you just today on our way home from shopping-four times actually. The first time I saw you, you were a one-armed man with a beanie knocking on the car at a red light hoping for a dollar or two. The second time I saw you, you were a black man getting off a city bus that I’m sure you caught with your last few dollars. You looked mournful and lonesome, I knew you were- you wore it on your face unmistakably. Then I saw you as we passed the hospital. I saw the lights on in your room as you payed there disoriented and working on your detox. The last time I saw you was on the interstate as we passed miles of trees that towered over you as you layed there drunk on the damp ground covered in dirt.

In one way, I haven’t seen you in over a year, before I turned 18 or 19, before I started college, before I learned how to drive or graduated high school. This hurts the most. This I miss the most, and I can’t put a date on this one. I hold on with memories. Me and dad staying up late watching action movies. Me and dad going on a drive listening to country music of Eminem, just because. Me and dad laughing. Me and dad making homemade bread on the kitchen table. Me and dad in the backyard while he teaches me how to shoot a gun. Me and dad in the field while he holds me up high enough for me to reach my horse so I can brush her. Me and dad on the girls toy aisle while he lets me pick out the Barbie I will be bringing home with me. Me, a toddler, laying in bed at 8 am waking up to you singing me “Good Morning Beautiful” by Steve Holy, in a whisper that tickles my ear. That last one is my favorite memory because it is the earliest one I have of you. I want to see this you soon. Me, your biggest cheerleader- daddy’s girl.

Until then, when they bring up to your name I stand tall fists clenched up ready to throw a punch at anyone who scars your name. This is a love I will always have for you that they can’t take away. I love you.

Love, Maria