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If I Wrote a Love Song For My Father
I envy women with easy, regular relationships with their fathers.
If I were to write a love song for my father, what it might sound like? A dirge perhaps, dark and lonely, haunting, wistful with what could have been, heavy with emptiness of unrequited love. And the words — they might cry with rage, might swoon with ache, might drip with longing.
My early memories are of a strong, determined man, one larger than life with thick hands and tree trunks for legs, moody like the moon, charming and clever one moment, a frightening, tyrannical giant the next. From him I learned awe and anger, caprice and temper, the sharp cut of sarcasm. From him I learned chagrin.
Today, he has shrunken, whether by age or disappointment, perhaps both. I am no longer afraid. Sad, yes, but not intimidated. Would it shock him to know this? Would it surprise him to see that the little girl he cowed into submission has found her power? No. He claims it for his own. “When you make it, I’ll take all the credit,” he said once. He meant it as a joke, as all the sophisticatedly weak do. At the time, it irked me, but the years have taught me that he is entitled to some credit. Because of him, I have learned to stand solid on ground of my own, to declare myself, to claim my truth, to love and to give and to know why I do…
