I am a 17, almost 18-year-old, high-school senior. I appear to the known and unknown very happy, energetic and strong. In a few months I will begin a new era of my life – entering the final frontier – but still I look behind. Unanswered questions and dreams hold me back. The door that I repeatedly try to slam continues to reopen and when I open my eyes, all that I see is his blank face. I can’t describe his nose, mouth or eyes. Nor can I see the resemblance I’ve heard so much about.

The blank face belongs to my father. A man who held me as a screaming baby and quieted my cries. For a short time I knew him and my eyes saw his face, but he was killed because of an accident. I was still a screaming baby, too young to hold onto memories. So, I can’t remember his nose, eyes, or touch. I have never seen a photograph and his life is seldom mentioned, but what I wouldn’t give to remember.

I look at many of my friends whose parents are divorced, or their fathers have recently died, but it’s different. I can’t relate because they have memories, something to hold onto. I have nothing but a 17-year-old Raggedy Ann doll I am told he gave me. They can look back and remember the “good times,” while I must sit and wonder if there ever were good times. In some far-fetched dream, I imagine that somehow or somewhere I will remember something. This is a hopeless dream, I know. But imagine not knowing your father’s face.

I have a new father now. He is wonderful, and with my mother, has raised me to be an intelligent and respectful young woman. I feel guilty dreaming and wishing about my birth father, but I can’t stop. If I could only remember one thing. One simple memory would satisfy my passion and get me through the nights I cry. But nothing. I only wish that he could hold me one more time and I could feel his touch.

Graduation is coming closer and soon my new life is bound to begin. What should be one of the happiest days of my life is almost here, and I sit dwelling on sadness. The clear view of my future is fogged with non-existent memories. When I make my final walk to the podium and turn my tassel from one side to the other, the only thing missing will be a voice that I can’t remember saying, “Michelle, I’m proud of you.”