Mar 2015
I remember the day you left us like it happened yesterday.
You told me you couldn't be with us anymore. That you had to leave, that you weren't happy anymore. As you left you promised me that you would see me in a few weeks. A few weeks turned into 4 years, and you are still trying to make up for that time that was lost.
You used to be a good dad. You used to take me out on adventures every Saturday morning. I remember sitting in your old truck listening to Pink Floyd on our way to Yosemite, always remembering to stop by that little cafe to buy me blueberry pancakes.
You were the first man to break my heart, stand me up, and leave me. You used to not lash out at us in anger.
You used to have gentle hands but now they are balled up fists sewn tight with anger, and just like your words, they hurt. You aren't a father anymore, just a stranger who sleeps on our couch in the living room after stumbling in drunk at 3 AM.
You told me you couldn't be with us anymore. That you had to leave, that you weren't happy anymore. As you left you promised me that you would see me in a few weeks. A few weeks turned into 4 years, and you are still trying to make up for that time that was lost.
You used to be a good dad. You used to take me out on adventures every Saturday morning. I remember sitting in your old truck listening to Pink Floyd on our way to Yosemite, always remembering to stop by that little cafe to buy me blueberry pancakes.
You were the first man to break my heart, stand me up, and leave me. You used to not lash out at us in anger.
You used to have gentle hands but now they are balled up fists sewn tight with anger, and just like your words, they hurt. You aren't a father anymore, just a stranger who sleeps on our couch in the living room after stumbling in drunk at 3 AM.
