by Jade Miller

Created on: May 14, 2009

He's tall, legs long and lanky in black jeans. In fact all of him is black, shadowed; cowboy hat shading the eyes, pale jaw line in sharp contrast. I notice because his chin is mine and it's the only part of him I can really see. I'm cuddled in his arms, a white swath of baby-ness with a mop of dark hair. I've snuck this picture out of the box so many times I've lost count. Usually I'm caught and the tattered picture is peeled from my fingers, but today when she sees me, crouching between her bed and the wall, peering down with the intensity of questions unanswered, her eyes are sad instead of angry.

With astonishing audacity I try for his name: Mama, what was his name?

His name is David. David Bonson. Give me the picture sweetie.

Where is he? How come I don't remember him? The questions are poised on my tongue, ready to fly fast and thick, but the set of her shoulders, the gripping of her fingers on mine is a message of defeat.

The name alone is enough to spark a new dimension in my walk to school game. I walk ever so slowly the next morning, perusing the passing cars with careful watchfulness, looking at men's jaw lines. This time if he emerges to find me, his long lost daughter, I will be able to say, David? David Bonson? Is that youDaddy?

Of course he never came as I was walking to school, or any other time for that matter. My attitude phased through a cycle of longing, guilt, rage, regret, and ultimately apathy towards any true feelings on the subject of my biological father. I built a cocoon of foolish behavior, outbursts of outrageousness, and lots of empty laughter to shield the bruises. Dancing down the road to hell, as one of my over eager teachers put it, seemed like a good way to pass the time. Of course bopping that direction is similar to lighting a fire of thorns: sudden, fierce heat and quick death.

What of the lack of communication from my mother when I was a child? Was it wicked of her? So wrong, this withholding of information, yes? Tsk, tsk. No matter how gently I probed, she never could tell me her story, but I managed to piece it together, patchwork quilt style, from many sources over the years. There is no picture I can hold in my hands to capture her moment of decision

He's tall, legs long and lanky in the ever present jeans, boots, and cowboy hat. She's too young, dark hair tossed behind her shoulders as she holds me, a white swath with matching black hair. She stands stern and unmoving beside his dusty pickup, her head turned away from his half-hearted small talk. Don't come again, she says dully, almost in a whisper.

Whadya' mean? I'll be back next week, same as always. Fair'll be in town, we'll have us a time!

Don't come again, she says once more, and turns eyes of fire to meet him. She means it, he knows it, and won't come back. Resolutely she marches over to meet the chorus of questions from the family, perched on the porch and certain her only way of making ends meet is to marry the one who created me.

She didn't tell them, then, what she saw to make her certain and strong for the first time in her life: in the bed of the truck, lodged in crumpled beer cans, she caught sight of my tiny face torn and stained, a picture of me and her gift to him, so she walked away. For most days of my childhood, this fierce act of self preservation and love for me sapped her strength, but it was a love I came to rely on. So, as happens too often, a reflection on a missing father morphs into an eloquent picture of sacrificial mother love.

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