I search for my father inside
this empty hollow of a house
I only meet his eyes through
glossy family portraits
hanging on the walls
on the shadows of my memories.
Darker than the ones I knew
distorting what I thought was real:
a life before divorce.
I think of all the picture frames
that he now has in his new house
displaying a family that is different
than the old one he chose to forget.  

I listen for that old familiar voice
that used to read me bedtime stories
about heroes that defended
things they loved and never left.
Sometimes when I'm lonely
I will playback ancient voicemails
When he told me that he
would be home for dinner.
I would set the table for my father,
it’s a chore I took for granted.
At the time I never knew I would
prefer the china dish-ware, because
it signified something other
than just an empty space.

I grit my teeth at Facebook statuses he makes
talking about his grandchildren that I’m not
related to. My house is no longer a home,
the faucet drips a melancholy rhythm
and the porch light has been out for weeks.
It’s been nine years since our dwelling was adorned
with sparkling Christmas lights but I can’t fix it.
I can’t make it shine again.
Repairing things was what he did best.

Here I am lodged in between the stranger
who says he’s my father and the man he used to be.
I am swirling in the gyre of the past I must hold on to
because if I forget the old him, I’ll forget a piece of me.
The man who constantly attended every
soccer game and honor roll assembly
has become too busy with assembling a double
life to concern himself with mine. I’ll keep him
as I remember tucked inside a golden locket.
A photograph of my father and I before everything
changed when I was still his little girl.