I never knew the true meaning of ‘Father’, it was a meaningless title that felt so weighted with purpose–an expectation, an occupation you were ever so unfortunate to be handed.
Burdened by.
But, ‘Dad’ never felt right either, maybe a weekend or holiday father? Stranger? More forced. It was a role you were, again, struggling to play in a production with no script.
Dads, at times, are helpers, coaches, and friends.
But, it was the coat you borrowed that never quite fit, manufactured a size too big–way too big. With pockets that could only fit the occasional visit whenever it was convenient to you.
Only after the hangover blues
Benders that went over the span of weeks. The smell of cheap Coors and vodka–but still hard enough to keep you blacked out.
From remembering.
I remember finding myself observing other kids with their fathers–watching with ease, conversations that seemed so effortless, how they took the time to get to know each other.
From what I hear, the relationship between a daughter and her dad is one of the greatest joys.
I remember the uncomfortable caress from my abdominal arch to just below my navel.