Dutiful Daughter

*Reader be warned: Deals with severe anxiety*

Daydreaming the newest, imaginary saga

I weave between the trees. Twirl and spin, on squishy grass.

This is my favorite time of year:

corn stalks molt to feed regrowth,

apples ripe for plucking,

soaked in the morning haze. I stop.

With a twist and a bite,

apple juice jumps, warm, from sun-fed seeds.

I smile wide, juice on my chin.

Unhindered.

I forget dad's world, where harvest

and life, must be orderly;

Tasks performed based on his inward reflection, access denied.

Dad exits the garden shed

shouts directions,

tosses milk jugs.

Disappears

to find a ladder.

Shaking my head at adult motivations too mature

for my youthful ignorance, I continue imagining other lives, other

places, but

you can't escape your upbringing.

Dad planted his trees

like his daughter;

rigidly - roots grasping ground -

branches wildly tapping.

Dark music unreconciled with my inner joy,

I grew.

The beauty within grew,

becoming anger.

***

The bible says respect your parents.

Mom's favored admonition.

Shock in her features

at the rebellious idea that respect

abandoned one-way streets and headed for open county.

"Why should I respect him,

when he doesn't respect me?"

My reply.

I gained new best friends:

self-esteem and self-worth.

Teenage vexation, propelled by a

suffering heart, I demand respect in return.

Resiliency gorged on outright anger,

to show the fool his reflection, using

comedic sarcasm, mimicry or barely disguised disgust.

Gathering my lofty friends

I stomp away.

***

Too bad, I didn't heed the lesson.

I am reminded of nights spent in wonder

of the infinite, untouchable, Milky Way.

Back pressed to the damp ground, waiting

for shooting stars.

But now, it is hidden by city lights,

that luminescent trail is overgrown.

Hectic pace, shoves joy deeper.

A destitution of the soul.

Panicked and inconsolable, an emergency room

visit later, I wait

to be rescued. The voices won't stop,

Failure, loser, sinner.

Becoming the dark thing I loathe.

I know then, that Dad was not angry.

Frustration was his fuel of choice

for the hardness of life. Black gum-like

machinations had seized the wheels of

his mind. Men don't have mental issues.

Now I understand. But,

Work is never done.

I fill jugs and tie them with twine to the crook of the tree.

I imagine that the gooey concoction of vinegar, molasses and water,

will cleanse the bark and encourage the buds to reawaken.

I didn't realize that when I showed the fool his reflection,

I was looking at my profile in the mirror.