I Don't Want to Miss You Any More
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Fathers Day, Christmas, New Year, my birthday, my brothers birthday, your birthday. These are the days where I miss you the most.
Even Valentines Day, because I remember being five years old and handing you a home made card.
"I don't like any boys at school, so you can be my Valentines, daddy."
I remember you teaching me to cook, me on a stool with an apron that crumpled well past my toes, your arms around me as you helped me stir. Me trying to make you breakfast in bed with the best of intentions.
You were only fifty-six when you got ill. I was seven when you left. It's been twenty months since you died. These are the numbers who haunt me. The numbers; the memories; the questions.
Like, did you love me? Would you support all the choices I've made? Would I be a different person if you were still here? Can you see me now? Are you proud?
Anyway, none of this is what I meant to say.
Happy Birthday dad, wish you were here.
Even Valentines Day, because I remember being five years old and handing you a home made card.
"I don't like any boys at school, so you can be my Valentines, daddy."
I remember you teaching me to cook, me on a stool with an apron that crumpled well past my toes, your arms around me as you helped me stir. Me trying to make you breakfast in bed with the best of intentions.
You were only fifty-six when you got ill. I was seven when you left. It's been twenty months since you died. These are the numbers who haunt me. The numbers; the memories; the questions.
Like, did you love me? Would you support all the choices I've made? Would I be a different person if you were still here? Can you see me now? Are you proud?
Anyway, none of this is what I meant to say.
Happy Birthday dad, wish you were here.