Monday, October 21, 2013

My father has been dead for a year and ten days

Someone asked me if I loved my father. I find that to be a trick question. Why should I say that, yes, I did love him, when that has never changed. So the question is wrong. The questions should be if I've always loved him. But then it hit me. That the person meant if I loved him while he was alive.

I struggle to talk about my dad. Always. I resent people who talk bad about him. I want to scream at them, really loud on their face, with a crazy face of my own, as to let them know that if they continue to talk shit I will hurt them, and that they don't want to get to that point. 

I miss my dad. And I want to hear him. I want to talk to him and I want to say tell him that I love him. And I want my crazy, vivid dreams to be some kind of reality. Because we laugh together in my dreams. And I can see his drawings in my dreams. And I'm still a man's daughter in my dreams. 

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