There are times when I

There are times when I see R interacting with our girls
that I wish that I had experienced the love of a daddy. Someone who would kick
anyone's ass who messed with me but hold my hand like it could break if held too
hard. There is a place in my heart that keeps a black and white photo never
taken of us together: me in a dress of indistinguishable color sitting on his
lap, both of us laughing at something the camera can't still long enough to
capture. I wish that I could have met him at least once. Of all that I have
struggled to forgive my mother, this has been the hardest. The hill became a bit
steeper last year when several of his relatives contacted me and told me stories
of his love for me from afar. I cannot hold the scale and allow it to measure
justice blindly. I want sometimes to place my finger on one side or the other,
depending on who I am listening to at the moment. "Crying because all he wanted
was to see his little girl" is a bit flip side of "a manic depressive sadistic
jerk who told me he hated me one minute and then couldn't live without me in the
next." I have no idea how Jack squeezed the life and love out of my mother's
heart. It happened though. He broke her spine and left her paralyzed and
disabled her senses. I have no idea how this same monster could have bawled at
my picture and ached and raved over not seeing me grow up. I sometimes wish that
I could have known who he was, his habits, and just shown up one day somewhere
in his routine. Just a pretty girl sitting at the counter. I envision a drink
shared; a few stories. I would have prompted him to tell me about himself,
secretly knitting such small pieces to my soul. I would be committing every part
of him to my memory- the green eyes my mother has always sworn she was looking
into when she glanced my way; the wavy, rebellious curls; the broad toothy grin
with lips that quivered when excited. I would watch his movements for
reflections of my own; taking mental note of the physical similarities: the
broad square shoulders, the long fingers that tap out the Morse code of nervous
energy. We politely chat of nothings. He finishes his coffee and cigarette. For
once, I am undisturbed by the smoke coming from his lungs- I want to breathe it
into my own and feel like we shared the same air if only for a second. Standing,
he nods and wishes me a good day. I mirror his smile and return the thought.
Outside, a woman says goodbye, inside a little girl cries, "Daddy don't go." I
walk out in the street, the sound of my feet on the concrete and the smell of
exhaust take their place in the recipe of city sounds. Looking to my left, I see
a man, taller than the rest, who once held the ability to make a woman feel
loved and a little girl secure, but he fades away into the crowd far from either
the woman or the blonde headed child that look after him.