Dear Dad

Dear Dad:

You are dead now so I don't know if you can hear what I have to say. I'm hopeful that you can.

When I was a very little girl, I used to ride with you on the subways of Boston. Back then, the subways sometimes flashed what I called "lightening" during the occasional explosions caused when the connections got over heated. So we'd be riding along under Boston's busy streets, and the "lightening" occured and I would burrow into your shoulder to seek comfort. Your strong arm would go around me and circle me with what I thought would be endless protection. Alas, that protection was brief. Or perhaps, my need was brief. It's hard to know which came first.

I shared your classroom. I spoke to your students. We were both educators. This we shared. That is how we connected. I was not young for very long.

Dad, you made many mistakes. I forgive you. You did the best you could. You were affected by your own childhood. This is something I understand now. I am also affected by my own childhood, or lack thereof. It has closed my heart, and encased it in stone. Somebody, somebody please find a hammer.

It's easier for a daughter to forgive a father. At least, that's what they say. At least, that's what they say.

Happy father's day dearest cherubs.

M.