Babes: A Letter to Daddy

Dear Daddy,

Happy Birthday.

Is it strange that I still haven’t processed your death as a death, but rather as

a long vacation?

And I know that isn’t the best thing to do,

because it implies that I’ll see you again.

But perhaps I will.

In this life and maybe the next I will see you:

Or maybe when I’ve left this country and

have settled down in another,

I’ll be standing in my daughter’s room

with a baby in my arms, perched over her crib,

staring out the window one evening,

and maybe you’ll tap me on the shoulder,

and I’ll turn around and see nothing.

Or maybe you’ll leave a pound on the ground,

as a way of saying “I’m here.”

Every time I see a coin I always think of you.

I think after reading this you’ll understand why I can’t accept you as gone,

only still, as missing,

because you are too apart of my everyday to be dead for four years.

A dead thing doesn’t linger.

I suppose if I admit this to anyone they’d assume that I need counselling,

so I’m only admitting this to you.

I’ll read this letter aloud

so that you can hear it,

and light a candle on some cake tonight

so that you can see it.

And to answer the question you would always ask me,

Yes, I’m fine. I’m actually great,

And I couldn’t be if you weren’t still with me.

Happy Birthday, Daddy.

l/r

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