father

Anyone can be a father. It takes someone special to be a Daddy.

My sister gave you that little statue.

I call you dad.

Anger. That’s the word that comes to mind most when I think of how it was. You buried your feelings with my mother. Most of them, anyway. It seems anger had already wrapped itself around your soul and wouldn’t be dislodged.

50 years later, when you sigh I feel my chest tighten.

I know it’s not me. Or maybe not just me. But you still give me anxiety.

I broke too many egg shells as a child. As a newborn, a toddler, a preschooler. I was too scrawny, too clumsy, too awkward. Too slow. I was too much, too energetic, too loud, too inquisitive, too curious. So many broken egg shells.

You built walls. They became a castle. A cold, dark, lonely castle with a moat and a drawbridge, some creatures living in the water and guards at the gate.

But the anger…it lived with you inside the castle.

I was married before you admitted to the abuse. You were doing some “personal improvement work”. You wanted to make amends. So, you dumped your shit on my doorstep and left. What the hell was I supposed to do with that??

I “forgave” quickly and moved on. Sort of.

Then I fell.

You said you would try to help. You came to one counseling session. You got angry.

Decades have passed.

Now you’re alone. So very alone. So, here I am. Outside the castle. At the gate. I see you. In there. Stuck. Wishing for more. Not sure how. What time is left? What hope is left?