It has been 5 years. I can still hear the patient, vague knocks on the front door. Mommy quickly flung open the brown, wooden door hoping that she could get the salesman or woman to leave. To her surprise, it was not someone selling something. I saw a skyscraper tall, bearded figure standing in the doorway. My father had come to my home. This would be the first and last time our tired eyes would ever stare curiously at each other. My mother asked me to go to my bedroom, so I did. She and my father talked for roughly an hour. It was not until years later that she actually told me what they had talked about. My father had said he wanted to be a part of my life, he wanted to change his ways and have a relationship with me. Except, that never happened. Sixteen years I have lived my life without a father. I have gotten use to not being able to take my Dad to the father-daughter dances at school, not being able to say "Hey, what's up Dad?" When I was younger I would write small letters to my father. Sometimes they would read "I love you, Dad." Other times, "i miss you, Dad." I set them on the sidewalk directly in front of my house and hoped the autumn winds would carry them to my father's door step, wherever that may be. I prayed to him every night and I told him about my day and my friends. My mom tells me how I get my artsy side from my father. She also tells me I have his smile. Michael, my father, passed away on May 5, 2010. I loved him, even though he put me through so much pain, I just hope he knew that I loved him.