by Jennifer Smith

Created on: January 02, 2009

Dear Father,

I remember the sacred trust between us. Your cut off Levi's and plaid sleeveless shirts dresses my mind in colorful memories that cause me to squint. How can ugliness put off such light?

That morning in July when I left you, I purposely waited for a moment when you would not be there. The plan was to pack a bag that night and hitch a ride first thing the next morning. But you lingered and my heart beat wildly at the thought of loosing this chance.

I stood hollow in the open doorway of my shell smelling the wafting scent of your Polo cologne. I thought to hold my breath and to forget. I could easily forget the one or two good times that we had, or, could I?

I thought of the time that you and I were hunting together. I was only five and as you fired those rounds over and over, I wanted to run and hide at the sight of those poor animals, bleeding. Thank you for introducing me to death. Why did they have to die? Why did I? When I misplaced the bullets,' your anger was palpable. The rush of your hand and the flush of my cheek were both warm and tender to the touch. Even today I can feel the sting.

I thought of the time that you and I were alone. You said you needed me. I wanted nothing but to please you and to make you proud. I let you have every ounce of me. I let you bounce off of me like a hot air balloon, feeling the warmth of your breath but gagging at the stench. I thought that it was the right thing, at seven. Turns out, I was wrong.

I thought of that time in the park when you told me to follow you. We walked across the stream toward the wood line but I accidently stepped into the water and wet the hem of my jeans. You told me just to take them off and that we could play in the stream. You told me not to worry because no one would see us, I mean, me. But today everyone can see the shame in my eyes.

Then there was the station wagon. Your hands were everywhere and you told me not to worry. We left a stain on the seat when you caused me to knock over the coffee. Then, you were angry at me!

The door way I stood in afforded me the chance to ask myself if you should be held accountable for any of your actions.

I thought the moment we connected would seal us for life. After-all, father, you were my hero. Now, standing in this doorway, twenty-five years later, I detest you, I spit on you, and I long to forget you. Who would have ever thought that a hero, a father, would turn into the very worst of them all?

So, my bags are packed. I am leaving this letter to remind you that the memories are lost, the good ones that is. I feel nothing but pain when I think of you. My emotions fall inward, crushing my insides with every memory. Most nights it is hard for me to breathe. Is it hard for you? It does not matter anyway. I'm running from you. The ride I hitch will be regret, will be traumatic fever, and is hate. I hope never to see you again, and yet I know I will.

Father, I just wanted to write this letter and thank you, thank you for being my hero.

Your daughter,

Jennifer

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