“Sometimes I feel my heart is breaking
But I stay strong and I hold on cause I know
I’ll see you again, oh
This is not where it ends
I will carry you with me”
Daddy’s little girl is a phrase I’ve heard a thousand times. It’s a notion I’ve sung along to with the radio and it’s a dream I’ve held onto tightly. Those three words have the power to draw tears, anger, smiles and laughter and conjure up wishful memories.
The memories of a little girl are strong and weak at the same time. They’re more powerful that the strongest of storms and they howl long into the night, calming fears and sparking false memories. I have memories of a man that wasn’t there. A man that left me in divorce and child support and later in sickness and death. His memory is one I refuse to give up on – the want to remember runs deep.
In truth, he wasn’t there. Sure, a few vivid memories stick out, but often, I find myself wondering if they were even real. Was he just a figment of my imagination? A story someone once told me. His face has slowly faded from my memory. The handful of photos I have are the moments I don’t remember, but are frozen in time.
I wonder how I looked at him and him at me. That’s a memory I don’t have and yet it burns a whole into my very being. I have his eyes, that much is certain – though mine are brown like my mothers, his poor vision is one thing I inherited. And as often as I complain about my eyesight, I cherish it because it was his as well.
I also cherish his name – one of the few things he gave me that I still have. It’s hard forstrangers to say, but to me, it is an old, dear friend. A comfort knowing that even in death, they cannot take that away from me. His name is mine. His name is the one my brother bears, but his granddaughter will never know.
His hugs were strong and tight, I remember, but short. I’d give anything to feel that embrace one last time – this time, I’d hang on for dear life and cherish every brief second. I’d close my eyes and carve the image of his face in my memory and I’d never let time erase it.
Every year I reflect on his absence and every year I wonder what it would have been like had he been there. And every year, that question hangs in the air and floats slowly to the ground like a feather. It remains – and will always remain – unanswered.