You: From Dad

From my creative writing portfolio in college. Written from "someone else's" perspective, a poem about the relationship between me and my dad.

I remember the day I first held you

and watched your bright eyes, curious and brand new.

You were red as the leaves of Autumn

with invisible pinky toenails,

ready to explore the world around you.

 

 

You were my snuggle-bug.

But most of the time you wanted to play.

You would smile and giggle about almost everything

every day.

 

 

For more than a year, I could bounce you

in the palm of one hand.

It helped you go to sleep.

When you got a little older,

we played hide-and-seek.

And, of course,

you’d always peek.

 

 

Small for your age,

happy, and full of mischief,

I’ll never forget that time at the lake

you caught with your bare hand

that ugly, smelly fish.

 

 

Around strangers you were so quiet and shy.

When we had people over

you’d run under your bed to hide.

 

 

Out of the first three times you won

the student of the month award,

you only walked up once to get your prize

when you were promised

a caramel apple sucker for a reward.

 

 

You hid under a table at your first piano recital.

But you could play music and sing

with the spirit of a strong warrior winning a battle.

 

 

Now that you’re away from home

and making a life of your very own,

your passionately spirited music,

your joyful presence,

is gone.

A silence swallows our home.

 

 

When you come back to visit I hear your music.

I listen.

When you’re here, my mind goes to the times

when you drew and colored pictures

in the kitchen of friends, family, 

and the jungle.

 

 

I go back to the times

you sang and danced in the living room to oldies music

while your mom was cleaning the house

or packing for a summer picnic.

Twirling your stuffed animals around

and showing off, barking right along

to “How Much is That Doggie in the Window?”

 

 

That little girl has hatched out of her shell,

has grown wings of strength.

Many things have changed,

but you’re still my daughter,

a girl,

my little girl,

one that I can always keep.