Dad

by Jill
(San Diego, CA)

As a little kid, if you asked me how tall my dad was, I might have told you that he was close to the sun. We would walk together with me, wrapping my whole hand around his pointer finger. When he lay on the couch, he was the biggest, warm, cushy pillow ever. And being an only child, I did not have to share him with anyone. I look at pictures of him and I see him as the grizzly bear and I as the kitten; curled up and protected by a force perceived larger than life.

At the age of sixteen, I was left in a hospital room with his corpse. I begged him to wake up. I considered jumping out of the seventh story window. I later found out that someone came in the room and found me hiding under his hospital bed. I don't remember this.

At his funeral, I heard someone say, "He has that smirk on his face". All I could think was that I was the only one who knew "that smirk" was really where the breathing tube was when they tried to revive him.

You're so strong. You're so strong. Over and over I would hear it. A SIXTEEN YEAR OLD THAT JUST LOST HER DAD IS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE STRONG!!!!! Why couldn't someone just give me permission to grieve!!!!

Twelve years later, I still am so sad. Feeling like a lost child, wandering through life, looking for their dad. Acceptance is not an option. Just please give me my dad back.