Bankers and Milky Ways

Dear Dad,

Even at 23,

you still follow me

with your jaunty walk, glossy eyes

- intoxicated.

For 18 years,

I stayed inside

like a plant in a flower pot

– trapped and disconnected from the Earth,

encapsulated between dark apartment walls

waiting for freedom.

I believed in the cynical lies you spewed out

between swallows of alcohol,

and I looked for ways

to prove to you I was good enough.

I studied so hard

until I cried

to achieve my straight ‘A’s’, but still

you pushed me around,

calling me names, planting seeds

of fear in my mind,

digging a deeper hole to throw me into

forgetting I needed sunshine to grow.

This continued on until I was Bette Davis

in Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte

paranoid and believing my life was a game

of yours to crush my confidences and strength.

So,

I stayed up late

finishing science projects, and later still

with my shoelaces tied, waiting to see

if tonight I’d have to run from your abusive tendencies,

and I’d wonder if I’d be awake enough

to take my grammar test the very next day.

Walking the streets with Mom and the boys I’d wonder

why there were never any stars to wish on in Phoenix,

why the yellow streetlights were my only guide

on those dark lonely roads

while you passed out on the living room floor

– covered in sweat and snoring away the night.

You drowned yourself in alcohol

and other addictions,

and I’m writing to say

I forgive you Dad.

Now that I am older

and a little wiser

and a little more confused,

I understand Dad.

You were a young man once,

coming to the land of opportunity

with your head full of dreams

of banking and numbers,

but it all got a little messy.

So, I’m sorry Dad

– if I was another thing stopping you from achieving your dream,

if I was another mouth to feed,

an added weight to your shoulders.

I tried to be like a Popsicle stick,

but I think I was more like the trunk of a Redwood instead.

I hope me leaving

helped you to stand up straighter.

Maybe it has,

maybe it hasn’t.

5 years and there’s no news

from you to me

or me to you.

I just hope when you’re older Dad,

that you don’t regret not making memories with me

– that you don’t miss not coming to my soccer games

or graduations

or sitting next to me on the swing in the evenings

eating Milky Ways.

Maybe you would have dried my tears

when the other kids laughed at the scars on my knees

or the birthmark on my face,

or maybe you would have ran with me on the blacktop

as fireworks shot off in the summer sky

had you cared.

Would you have been proud

of having a daughter whose self-worth isn’t in positon,

marriage or money,

but rather in her insecurities and confidences?

We could have followed our dreams together,

but maybe the path you chose was the right one for you.

Either way,

I pretend you love me

somewhere in your heart, and you’re proud

I’m following my dreams,

and if there’s an afterlife

maybe we’ll make memories there.

Until then Dad.

Rose. Rosie. Rosita.