6d
No, it wasn’t the time and care that you took to write B a poem for your Father’s speech at her wedding, and the fact at how well you wrote it, or how well you spoke it, or how well you portrayed her or even all of those tiny little, beautiful details that even I had forgotten of her childhood- despite you not being present for a majority of them.
It wasn’t how you remembered your glasses this time, or how you were good to not have one too many (that was the reason you left us when we were little after all. classic), it wasn’t how put together you were this time around - not drenched in sweat, with your tie already loosened and your jacket shoved open.
No, it wasn’t that you used to write poetry, beautiful poetry. Or that this was the first moment, since I could ever know or remember, you writing something. Or, as you noted to B and her now newly husband, how you carefully wove these tiny morsels of moments into a beautifully structured set of stanzas just for her and her special day because, as you now address the entire room, “B writes (wrote* in HS) beautiful and prolific poetry”, as you go on to tell the story about the one poem submitted in high school, and that you wanted this to be personal to her. That this was your connection to her. The sides war raging in my mind. Tears start pouring.
No, it’s not because you had over a year to prepare a speech for my wedding and maybe a few months’ notice for B’s. I’m seated at the bridal table, centered on display in front of everyone in the room - just behind my father, currently giving his speech, with B and the groom off to the side. The tears not stopping.
Just two months prior to this moment, you drunkenly announced you had forgotten your glasses as you proceed to the stage. “But don’t worry”, you say “I have it memorized, for the most part…. Well, I mean, how can I talk about one daughter… when I have three beautiful daughters… ”. No, dad, it wasn’t even this line - though close, considering this was a decent sized theme of my childhood.
See when you left us, sides were chosen (earlier reference). And well, I chose wrong. Ash and B are smarter, I guess, as you have so proclaimed; they sided with mom. My idiot *** sided with you. In fairness I was three, but for some reason I always yearned for my father. “No, I’m a daddy’s girl” I would proudly tout. Instant outcast. I grew up fighting with mom. It got pretty bad at moments. Wasn’t much better with Ash or B. Though B and I had a close bond in our younger years. We were always divided on the subject of mom versus dad, however. I was just different than them. Especially on my viewpoints, or rather love, of you - but that was ok. You were my knight. You were coming to rescue me one day.
And then you did. I was twelve. Things got bad when you came back. I remember. My sisters were upset, but I was happy I finally had you there. I held faith that we would find our way through this dark time as a family, as 4 again. Then you and mom delivered the news in the living room of our new house. Mom was pregnant and it was goin to be a boy. The boy you always wanted. That was it. The start of official abandonment. Actually in person and present, compared to our childhood, but more distant than ever. Everything was about him, Mace. So I escaped. The only way a middle schooler could- through running. And through poetry. Yep, poetry. But for some reason I believed that I would be judged for being creative, not allowed. That only Ash and B could write, like how you wrote, and your dad and our distant relatives wrote. So I hid it. I started writing at the age of 12. Creative writing classes in HS. Publishing poems online in college. A folder in an app on my phone full of unpublished works, half and fully written pieces.
No, I’m sitting here at my sister’s wedding, tears softly streaming down my cheeks - and like a river off course, salt crashing into the corners mouth, the salt sharp on my tongue, sharp like the pain now building somewhere in a corner of my heart- because I’ve spent over 30 years of my life waiting for you.
Waiting for you to be there.
Waiting for you to see me.
To see the sacrifices I made for you. To see the time I gave up waiting, for you. The space and distance I held for you, and from others. All since the day you left that I have been holding until this very moment right now. The tears come harder now, threatening to very well drown me and stop my breath. I may welcome it.
And you don’t even know one of the rooms in my house (and you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t even know the reference). And the irony in that the reason for writing was you.
And here you’ve escaped your writer’s retirement. What a moment. And god what a beautiful ******* speech this is, it hurts. I’m so happy for my sister. But still it wasn’t for me - and yet that 5 year old girl, she keeps waiting. Thinking her knight is actually going to rescue her one of these times.
Ohhhhh, that’s why you think I’m not as smart as my two sisters. Touché.
******* dad.
It wasn’t how you remembered your glasses this time, or how you were good to not have one too many (that was the reason you left us when we were little after all. classic), it wasn’t how put together you were this time around - not drenched in sweat, with your tie already loosened and your jacket shoved open.
No, it wasn’t that you used to write poetry, beautiful poetry. Or that this was the first moment, since I could ever know or remember, you writing something. Or, as you noted to B and her now newly husband, how you carefully wove these tiny morsels of moments into a beautifully structured set of stanzas just for her and her special day because, as you now address the entire room, “B writes (wrote* in HS) beautiful and prolific poetry”, as you go on to tell the story about the one poem submitted in high school, and that you wanted this to be personal to her. That this was your connection to her. The sides war raging in my mind. Tears start pouring.
No, it’s not because you had over a year to prepare a speech for my wedding and maybe a few months’ notice for B’s. I’m seated at the bridal table, centered on display in front of everyone in the room - just behind my father, currently giving his speech, with B and the groom off to the side. The tears not stopping.
Just two months prior to this moment, you drunkenly announced you had forgotten your glasses as you proceed to the stage. “But don’t worry”, you say “I have it memorized, for the most part…. Well, I mean, how can I talk about one daughter… when I have three beautiful daughters… ”. No, dad, it wasn’t even this line - though close, considering this was a decent sized theme of my childhood.
See when you left us, sides were chosen (earlier reference). And well, I chose wrong. Ash and B are smarter, I guess, as you have so proclaimed; they sided with mom. My idiot *** sided with you. In fairness I was three, but for some reason I always yearned for my father. “No, I’m a daddy’s girl” I would proudly tout. Instant outcast. I grew up fighting with mom. It got pretty bad at moments. Wasn’t much better with Ash or B. Though B and I had a close bond in our younger years. We were always divided on the subject of mom versus dad, however. I was just different than them. Especially on my viewpoints, or rather love, of you - but that was ok. You were my knight. You were coming to rescue me one day.
And then you did. I was twelve. Things got bad when you came back. I remember. My sisters were upset, but I was happy I finally had you there. I held faith that we would find our way through this dark time as a family, as 4 again. Then you and mom delivered the news in the living room of our new house. Mom was pregnant and it was goin to be a boy. The boy you always wanted. That was it. The start of official abandonment. Actually in person and present, compared to our childhood, but more distant than ever. Everything was about him, Mace. So I escaped. The only way a middle schooler could- through running. And through poetry. Yep, poetry. But for some reason I believed that I would be judged for being creative, not allowed. That only Ash and B could write, like how you wrote, and your dad and our distant relatives wrote. So I hid it. I started writing at the age of 12. Creative writing classes in HS. Publishing poems online in college. A folder in an app on my phone full of unpublished works, half and fully written pieces.
No, I’m sitting here at my sister’s wedding, tears softly streaming down my cheeks - and like a river off course, salt crashing into the corners mouth, the salt sharp on my tongue, sharp like the pain now building somewhere in a corner of my heart- because I’ve spent over 30 years of my life waiting for you.
Waiting for you to be there.
Waiting for you to see me.
To see the sacrifices I made for you. To see the time I gave up waiting, for you. The space and distance I held for you, and from others. All since the day you left that I have been holding until this very moment right now. The tears come harder now, threatening to very well drown me and stop my breath. I may welcome it.
And you don’t even know one of the rooms in my house (and you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t even know the reference). And the irony in that the reason for writing was you.
And here you’ve escaped your writer’s retirement. What a moment. And god what a beautiful ******* speech this is, it hurts. I’m so happy for my sister. But still it wasn’t for me - and yet that 5 year old girl, she keeps waiting. Thinking her knight is actually going to rescue her one of these times.
Ohhhhh, that’s why you think I’m not as smart as my two sisters. Touché.
******* dad.
An exercise from my therapist - "Dear Dad", she called it. Like indulging in a bite of chocolate cake, except you can't just have one bite. Something so small, a little irritant, but as you keep going, keep digging, you uncover a world of true hurt and pain. It's a little dramatic. Maybe I am being harsh on myself, always am. At the end of the day, it was a diary entry but this one felt worth sharing.
