Daddy, it hurts. It hurts really bad, Daddy, it really hurts when I
hear that voice on the phone.
I catch myself thinking of your death.
Not actively hoping for death, more like imagining "that part" is
over, we've worked through our grief, we'll always love and miss you,
but you're gone now. It's a quiet, soothing time. You've gone to a
better place. You're an angel, sitting on a cloud, singing and
playing guitar.
Your smile is the same, but your hands are strong, your voice
distinct, and your words are cognizant. And intellectual. And
funny.
Then I realize what I'm thinking, and I cry.
I cry until my throat is parched, my stomach is in knots, and my
head
feels like a train wreck. And I don't call you.
Again.
I visit and call you less than ever. I tried writing letters, but
sometimes the result was worse than the phone calls. I'm a bad, bad
person.
This isn't about me, it's about you, and I should grow up and deal
with
it. I thought I was grown up: I have a job, a family, a mortgage,
health insurance. Where I live, there's a whole community that thinks
I'm a responsible adult.
They don't know that on the inside, I'm still your little girl.
You are the first man I ever loved, and you're the man I've loved
most.
You're the man who told me stories at night, taught me to tie my
shoes, spent endless hours with me in your lap, looking at pictures
in the World Book encyclopedia. You were at every even slightly
special event that allowed doting fathers, telling everyone within
hearing distance how proud you were of your wonderful daughter. You
with your camera on the front row, you in your khaki pants and plaid
shirts like the county agent on Green Acres. It was so embarrassing:
I believed I wanted you to stop.
Daddy, it hurts. It hurts really bad, Daddy, it really hurts when I
hear that voice on the phone. It sounds like my Daddy, but it's not.
Sometimes he yells at me, he screams out awful things he thinks I've
done to him, that I've stolen his cattle or hidden his bank accounts
or tried to take away his home. He might hang up on me, or even
worse, he might say the one thing that I just can't bear to hear
again-
"What... what did you say your name was, ma'am?"
The pills I'm taking didn't work at first, but I guess they're
starting to. I've written this all down and only cried twice. Maybe
in a few weeks, I won't have to cry at all. Then I'll come and see
you.
