Love Letter #1 in a Series
June brings remembrances of fathers. I find myself having memories of a father of
long ago. At least once or twice I remember sending a letter over the years to the
resting place where he was buried. Come to find out, I’m not the only one who has done
this. It is quite common for others to do it as well. I’m not sure what the caretakers do
with the letters. They may open and read them, then dispose of them, or maybe they don’t
bother at all.
Much later in life I have written letters calling them, ‘Love Letters To Daddy”, working
through emotional issues of an absent father. I had to put them together slowly, there
was no way of hurrying the process.
Daddy, you were bombed last night!
Walking into the kitchen the
morning after, light reflects you
in the breakfast nook, as I quietly
enter to see if you are alright.
You are hiding behind the newspaper
and unable to notice your daughter.
Alcohol vapors sting my nose, you don’t
see me, as if I don’t exist.
Oh Daddy, you were the one
with the clickity-click-click of the
tongue and the crazy songs you sung.
Where did Mama go? I think she got
tired and left.
I remember her pouring water from
bottles down the drain, but it had
a funny smell, I couldn’t really tell.
Who is this strange lady in our
house, the one wearing a blue
negligee, you both swing and sway
from room to room, then pass out
on the bed.
Sounds of heavy breathing are
alarming, I am confused and don’t
know what to do.
Viciousness in the kitchen the day
you staggered across the kitchen
A pressure pot of beans exploding
on the ceiling sending you to the
I begged you not to drink, but you
once again began to sink, I’m sorry
Daddy I made you drink.
Well, my visit with you is almost done
and my time is spent, I will soon be
Really Daddy, will you send me back
to those abusers and their evil ways?
Aww, please, why do you let them
do this to me? I really don’t think I can
take much more.
Oh, don’t make me leave, don’t make
me go back to that smelly shack.
Your pungent smell of vinegar, cukes
and alcohol are better than that.
But my pleas were ignored, you were
just too sick to have me around.
That fifth of whiskey made you awful
thirsty hiding the bottles in
cabinets and drawers.
Remember how you swerved on those
LA freeways, taking me to the bus,
without a sound between us?
The roar of the engines and exhaust
fumes making me sick, carry me to
a place I would rather not go.
Finally climbing the steps, crying,
unaware of the effects on an innocent
child from no where.
Well Daddy, I remember these
things whether you do or not, so I am
writing these letters in hope to be
freed of the pain that was caused!