The finality of it
is crashing down on me.
This box, this one box
with all those trinkets
I once valued, treasured
sitting before me on the floor.
I moved out.
Out for good.
It was my decision...
my choice...
as though I had one.
And it feels like I left
behind some part of my childhood,
though I wasn't sure I ever had one there.
something deep within cries out
in dismay
wanting to be heard,
wanting to held.
Wanting to cling desperately
to the childhood
I'm leaving behind.
At the bottom of the box
is a picture of me and daddy
I'm in a sailor suit,
cute little skirt,
with the hat that looks like a boat,
for a pagent we were doing.
I was six or seven years old
and I was sitting on Daddy's knee
looking at the camera with a big smile
but he is looking at me.
He's smiling and proud.
I had a solo (every one did)!
I'm crying.
I can feel the tears
rolling down my cheeks,
but I can't take my eyes off this man,
his eyes are bright and clear
no drug nor drink
ail his mind.
He is free from his addictions.
This was when he was my hero.
When I wanted him to be
at my pageants and recitals.
When I still believed in trying out
for the solos.
My anger screams for me
to rip this photo
into halves, fourths, eighths
however small it might take
to make it unrecognizable.
But I can't make myself move
I can't take my eyes off
of this father and daughter duo.
This was before divorces, step-moms, and half siblings
this was before cutting, annorexia, addictions,
before secrets and lies.
I want to put this picture down,
I need to,
before I start to hope,
before I start to remember.
I can't.
Can't set it down,
can't stop the memories
from resurfacing.
The sad thing is
I can't remember anything good
from before the divorce.
I know there must have been something
but I can't find it
locked so deep in my head
I can't find it.
I have good memories of my sister,
of my mother,
of neighbors and friends,
but my father is always absent.
I don't even remember the pageant...
I remember the costume
and the "assignment"
but if it weren't for this picture
I wouldn't have even known my father
had seen that pageant.
In all those moments
when a little girl
needs her father's arms to protect her
I can recall him not being there...
especially the many E.R. visits,
when I needed him to promise me
that I would be okay.
What I can remember before the divorce
is fighting. Yelling. Screaming.
Christmas and Easter mornings,
spent in quiet anxiety
waiting for my father to rise,
and the tone he used
to greet us
when he saw we had eaten candy
or opened a present
because the anxiety was too much for
a 4 year old and an 8 year old.
Fights in the kitchen
that made my sister and I hide
under the table,
because there wasn't enough salt,
or there was too much,
on his eggs.
Cowering in fear
after my nightmares,
unable to go to sleep
because Dad didn't like to be woken up
and screaming to be comforted
was not an option.
My own private nightmare,
being my father chasing after me.
One I couldn't escape.
That's what I remember.
I wonder why I admired him at all.
Memories flood my mind,
hours of the past
taking up seconds of my thoughts,
flashing by like cars
on the highway.
Each passing thought showing his demise
until he wasn't a father at all.
I try to soak them all in,
without success.
I dry my tears
and set the picture of the father and daughter down,
turning away from fantasy to reality,
from a picture of something
I can't remember
to a box of trinkets
I want to forget.
I repack the box's possessions,
not caring if they break,
I tape the lid shut,
on the top of the box
I tape the picture of the father and his daughter,
I notice that I no longer consider
the girl to be me
or the father to be my father,
I pick the entire box up
and bring it to the trash cans outside
I close my eyes,
battling tears,
and whisper "goodbye."
I push the box over the edge,
listening long enough to hear
the tell tale crash of breaking figurines,
before I walk away.
Leaving behind a part of me
I never really wanted back anyways,
at my front door
I pause
listening to the whisper of my old self
begging me to come back,
to take it with me,
I smile and go in,
without looking back.
