My Father

December 11, 2010
When I was born, you would hold me in the middle of the night
just to whisper sweet nonsense until I went back to sleep.
When I was one, I learned to call people by their names.
You'd tuck me in and I'd say "Daddy."
When I was two, I'd stand on your toes
as you carried me across the floor.
When I was three, I would get on your shoulders
and tell everyone I was king of the world because of you.
When I was four, I said my favorite color was pink
because I knew you like red and we'd match.
When I was five, I would get on my bus and run to my seat
just so I could open the window and shout, "I love you daddy!"
When I was six, I'd hold your hand in the store
so you knew I was still there.
When I was seven, and you got home from work,
I'd run and hug you before you got the chance to close the door.
When I was eight, I learned how to draw hearts around our names,
my binder was decorated in them.
When I was nine, I would sit by you in the restaurants
so that we could steal each others food when the other wasn't looking.
When I was ten, and the teacher asked who we admire most,
I would tell them I was a "daddy's girl."
When I was eleven, I remember we went to the park to shoot hoops,
it was the only time we got to spend together.
When I was twelve, I never told you that I didn't want any more Barbies,
instead I would cry because of the sentimental meaning of them.
When I was thirteen, I remember we would still go out on Halloween,
but I never told you it was because I was scared and wanted you to protect me.
When I was fourteen, I would feel your arms wrapped around me
and feel your beard tickle my neck shortly before I went to bed.
When I was fifteen, I'd asked for your help on computers and cars,
I told everyone I wanted to be like you.
Now I'm sixteen and lost.
Where are you?
What happened to us?
Why did you just leave?
Does family mean nothing to you?

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