"Life's not fair" you used to say.
I told you that life isn't fair for anyone which is what makes it fair for everyone.
I wondered if my words had reached you, if you saw anything past the horizon, why you read so many books.
I wanted you to go outside and play, to cause some trouble, to kiss a boy or two. Instead you locked yourself inside a world of solitude where your only friends were the characters of the tales you weaved in your head as you read.
You had tossed away many of my expectations, my hopes, of fathering a girl. You gave me no boys to intimidate, possibly to scare away. I never once had to wait for you past midnight, after hearing you sneak away. How I yearned to help you pick out your dress for each or one of your school dances. I would see you draped in a black scarlet silk, shoulders and back exposed enough to tease any young mans heart, yet only slightly. Mid back would suffice. The dress would hover inches away from your ankles, and this is where my influence may have been involved for I never once saw you wear high heels, anywhere, to my joy. I wouldn't have apposed ***, but I'd let you know just what your mother went through having you. I'd tell you how she smiled before she died, exhausted, saying without speaking a word, it was worth it. But only when you're ready. I wanted to explain condoms, embarrass you with a banana, but these things somehow you already knew.
I don't blame you for being you, my dear, no. I just always had an image in my head, that you erased and redrew. I've grown up believing every experience is a lesson, every person a teacher, and every star another reason to love. How I loved watching you grow, even though I always wished for you to experience, something, more. I'm sorry I wasn't the father I had imagined I'd be. I just, had never experienced such loss. Your mother, without realizing it until she was gone, was my life. I adored her beyond reason. You look just like your mother as you read. When I would pass your room, seeing you in the crook of your window reading whatever book you were reading, it was as if I were looking back in time. Another gift you gave me without ever knowing it.
I hadn't meant to be so silent, so distant. Is that how you learned to keep to yourself, was it so easy not to laugh? You were always quiet as a baby. I can't remember what your cries sounded like, they were few to never in between. Perhaps we taught each other, yet your eyes were always filled with age. How you knew without knowing, scarred me. You frightened me child. I felt but a boy in your presence.
A worthless father, I know, intimidated by his own child.
But how I have always loved you, how I love you still.
How I wish I could tell you, just once, before you left me like your mother.
Do the dead listen when the living speak?
Is it worth hearing the cries of an old man broken once too many times?
Darling, tell your mother hi for me, tell your mother, I'm sorry.
