|
Athair |
every year after i’ve not talked to
my dad
in over three months, he texts me,
“Hey, send me some ideas for Christmas.”
i should be grateful, i know.
my dad
has the money and the generosity to buy me christmas gifts.
lots of kids don’t even get one Christmas, i get two. one with my mom one with
my dad.
but the selfish girl in me is still upset because
my dad
doesn’t seem to do it because that’s what parents do on Christmas.
it seems that
my dad
wants to make up for all the years he was MIA.
when we left Washington, i didn’t talk to my father for years.
when i was ten, i flew out to Washington to visit him, his new wife, his new step-son, his new dog, and our cat, that he kept when we left.
when i got off the plane at SeaTac International Airport, i didn’t know who to look for.
i didn’t know
my dad.
i called him “Jeremy” for the first four years of our rekindled relationship, because i didn’t think he deserved the title of “dad”.
my dad
is a great man. i know.
my dad
has served in the military for over half of his life.
my dad
paid child support.
my dad
paid my medical bills.
my dad
paid for my braces.
my dad
put food on our table for 18 years.
my dad
bought me the new shoes i wanted and the glasses i needed
my dad
calls me on my birthday, on thanksgiving, on valentine’s day, on St. Patrick’s Day, because we are that Irish.
my dad
even called me when i came out, he actually called
to say he loves me regardless.
my dad’s
name in my phone is “Communist” because he one cold winter day when i was 13 and in the front seat of his forest green 98’ Toyota 4Runner, he started calling me Sputnik.
inside of me, there is an angry girl.
angry at her dad for letting go so easily without an occasional call or post card from all the magnificent places he had been to,
angry because no matter how heartbroken she was about losing her dad, all these years later, he is still
my father
copyright 2018
Kallista A
Thompson |
