September, two weeks before my sixth birthday and I’m at my fathers funeral.
Alone, quiet and withdrawn from everyone in a corner. Why me?
Have I done something wrong?
Did I ask for too many things?
Unable to truly grasp the intensity of what has actually happened, til later on down the road, all I can do is cry.
My hands dug into my face, my shirt damp from the tears, tissues will no longer suffice.
Where did my daddy go?
Why will he no longer be here with me anymore?
Simple questions a child finds hard to comprehend at that age. The idea that he will never be with me again is beyond me.
You know that feeling you get when your heart drops to the pit of your stomach because you’re truly terrified?
Scared, scared of life. Scared of possibly enjoying something or accomplishing something and not being able to run back and show my father.
Daddy, look what I drew. Or daddy, look what I got at school today.
Or even, and this one gets me, daddy, will you do me the honor of walking me down the aisle?
The thought of now and never having a father.
My daughter never being able to meet her grandfather is a wound that keeps opening with every passing day.
Kids who hate or use their fathers saddens me.
I think, If I could just have one shot at having my father and truly appreciating him and they actually have a father and yet don’t know how to treat him.
Good morning daddy.
See you later dad.
Things I will never get the opportunity to say to my father, simple things, words people take for granted are words that yearn to come out of my mouth.