I miss my Dad.
There I said it.
I miss him so much sometimes that I feel like my heart is cracking inside me. So much that I can’t breathe, that I choke on the force of how much I miss him, how sad I am.
But my Dad has behaved horribly, has sunk lower than a dead weight in an ocean bed. Because of his despicable actions, I’m not supposed to miss him and I’m not supposed to want him to redeem himself and do better, be better.
But I do.
I was a Daddy’s Girl. I walked in his shadow and thought the world really did revolve around him.
Everything he said, did – I thought was gospel from a demi-god.
I look like him. When I was young, I was so proud of that, proud to have something that connected the both of us so obviously.
Mack looks like me.
There are times I can see my Dad in him and it breaks my heart.
The room would rock from music. Dad would put on a beloved song – An American Trilogy by Mickey Newberry, Music of the Night from the Phantom of the Opera – and blast it on the record player so loud that the living room glass would shake. He’d sink into the music, in some kind of soul bliss.
I hear these songs now… and if I let myself, I’ll cry. Big ugly cry with a tinge of shame because I’m not supposed to have or keep good memories of him, am I?
Because of his despicable actions, I’m not supposed to miss him and I’m not supposed to want him to redeem himself and do better, be better.
But I do.
We never made that big of a deal for Father’s Day (or Mother’s Day, for that matter). My family was about birthdays. Yet somehow when Father’s Day rolls around each of the 5 years since my mom left my dad, I feel the bombardment of people’s tributes to their own fathers so keenly.
Fathers they love, fathers they trust. Fathers who were/are wonderful and amazing. Unwarped, untwisted, unsickened, untainted.
I feel horrible for missing mine.
It’s like a death that goes unmourned.
I don’t have that much else to say about it.
I’ll be glad when today is over