Chickadee

I am fifteen years old, going on sixteen, and my father calls me chickadee. I do not know why—I am not chipper like one at five in the morning, nor do I have the required vocals down. But yet whenever he sees me, it is always, “There’s my chickadee.” And I am not saying I don’t like it. No, I do. I quite love it, actually. It makes me think that, at least to him, I am like a bird: Joyous, lighthearted, free. It lets me know that he loves me, and I love that. It may not be the coolest thing, and most people my age may not like to be called such a name; I suspect it falls on the list of, “babycakes” and “punkin-pie,” but I do not care. Yes, I am fifteen years old, going on sixteen, and my father calls me chickadee.