Wednesday, February 17, 2010


He was a chain smoking, coffee drinking, horse race gambling, motorcycle riding, cowboy boot wearing, super sensitive, moody, refused medication bi-polar, R&B listening, had a piece of blue paper and two naked men touching fingers on his living room wall, sober for the first time since he was 12 years old, didn't plan on ever being a father guy I met at a Walgreens Coffee shop, someone I called Tom. In the beginning, that is. He wasn't my knight in shining armor. But in the end, he was my Dad.


Throughout the years my mother answered each and every one of my questions to the best of her ability. Whenever things were tough with Daddy my mind and aching heart would get the better of me.

Does he know about me? Yes. Does he love me? Yes. Why did he leave us? He didn't leave us, I wouldn't let him stay. Why? It's complicated. Where does he live? Oakland, I think. Why can't I see him? He's not ready to see you. But why? He just can't right now. He drinks. Do I look like him? I don't know, I think so. What does he look like? I don't really know honey, it's been a long time. What does he do for work? I don't know, he used to be a contractor. Is he nice? Yes.

I'd start dreaming of our meeting. Of how we'd recognize each other if we saw each other in a crowded mall. Of how he would be supportive of me, my education, my interests, goals, aspirations. How he'd be my confidant, closest ally, supporter, friend. Of how he'd be the complete opposite of Daddy.