Daddy
- 3 years ago
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To Daddy free porn video
‘There are things that we don’t want to happen but have to accept, things we don’t want to know but have to learn, and people we can’t live without but have to let go.’
~Author Unknown
It was a normal Monday evening. Puttering around the house, cleaning up small messes, cleaning the hamsters cage. Yes, that’s the part that sticks in my mind. Since that night, I feel a tug of anxiousness in my tummy when the day rolls around to clean that cage. Silly isn’t it?
Time freezes, images emblaze themselves into your brain, smells sear your nostrils. You remember every insignificant detail of the instant that changes your life forever.
My phone rang, and I was informed my father had been found on the side of the road in his truck. I immediately assumed he was overdosing. There’d been a few times before we thought the same thing. This time though, it seemed scarier. More real. There was more truth.
We left the house, and my heart was filled with anger, rage, and resentment. I wanted him to feel as bad as I did. I was going to that hospital to let him, the man that gave me 50% of my life, have a piece of my mind.
My phone rang again, and my boyfriend tricked me into pulling into the parking lot of a Bob Evan’s. Funny, I doubt I’ll ever eat there again. He looked me in the eyes, and delivered the blow that shattered my heart. My dad had not made it. I felt my chest tighten and squeeze with the knowledge, and felt like my heart was scrambling, trying to get the pieces gathered back together. Not to fix itself you see, for it was too new, but so all the pieces would be there when one day, eventually, I could heal.
‘We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey.’
~Kenji Miyazawa
After my boyfriend held me awkwardly across the center console and helped me cry, we traded places. He started driving home, and I sobbed quietly in the passenger seat, watching but not registering the scenery that we passed. I was angry still… it just couldn’t be true. I wasn’t ready. Our relationship had never been fixed… there was so much left unsaid, undone.. No! It just wasn’t time! Why? I wanted to scream my frustration, I wanted to scream that I didn’t know what to do! How would this every be right! How could my dad be gone? No, no, no, it wasn’t right, wasn’t time.
I lit a cigarette and painfully took puffs in between sobs. My boyfriend quietly reminded me that I needed to breathe. My best friend called, he told her what happened. She got off work early and headed for my house. I called my step mom and we cried together on the phone, miles apart, confessing that we were mad at him. Saying out loud was like aloe on a burn. It made me feel better. I think that’s when the healing began. I felt a piece of my heart wiggle its way back into place.
‘Death, the one appointment we must keep, and for which no time is set.’
~Charlie Chan
The evening passed, my boyfriend, mother, and best friend and I gazing at each other from across the room, unsure of what to say and what to do. Once the initial shock wore off, I was able to relax some, but tears would get backed up behind my eyes and demand release. And they would come, and I would let them. My friend finally left, my mom went to bed, and I collapsed, defeated, upon my own mattress. Sleep finally came.
When I woke up, I had nearly forgotten what happened, but then it hit, and I cried fresh tears. I again thought how unfair it was, that it wasn’t time. I’ve learned one thing in my life- Death doesn’t care. Death doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t care about age. Death doesn’t care about circumstance. Death doesn’t care, because it doesn’t know. Death isn’t a person you can go scream at for wronging you. It’s a being that’s been around from the beginning of time, sneaking in like an intruder in the middle of the night, snatching your loved ones away, right out of your grasp. Death wisps away, not knowing, not caring, about the mess it’s left behind.
‘Death ends a life, not a relationship.’
~Robert Benchly
Due to my grandfather’s health at the time, the funeral was postponed, and we waited to see if he was going to pass away also. The only thing I could think was that Death held a grudge, and was going to wipe out our family in one swoop. Faceless bastard. But Grandpa stabilized, though he wasn’t getting better. The funeral was set. Now all we had to do was wait.
I had plenty of time for thinking. I was still mad. But one afternoon, I felt the anger lift, the tendrils of rage raising from my soul, and disappearing into the breeze. I felt peaceful. I felt much better. But with that came defeat. I felt myself deflate, like a balloon with a slow leak. Regardless, I felt better. My mom came to my room, looked at me, and said, ‘You’re not mad anymore, are you?’ It was evident on my face. My anger hadn’t done any good when he was alive, and all it would do now is make me miserable.
I realized that as long as I could heal, and feel those pieces of my heart reposition themselves, I could forgive him, and make amends in my soul with his, and establish a bond in death that we didn’t have in life. I almost feel sometimes that we have a better relationship now that we did when he was alive.
When he was alive, I couldn’t say the things I wanted to say to him. Now that he’s gone, I say whatever comes to mind. He too is different. He hears, nods, and understands. I feel his presence and I think I know that he feels bad, and that he’s sorry for everything.
‘Death may be the greatest of all human blessings.’
~Socrates
I am not glad that my dad is dead. But, there are aspects of it that seem to make it… okay. As I just said, I feel that he’s sorry.
The beast of addiction was too strong for him. It always has been. My mom wrote me a letter right after he died, and she wrote, ‘I think God knew that the evil had chased him for too long. That’s why he took him- he just couldn’t fight anymore.’
My dad’s life had become a mockery. He pretended, he fabricated, he lied. He couldn’t have been happy. I know the rest of us weren’t.
I too felt like the beast had chased him too long. It wasn’t fair. My dad was a good man. He had a good heart, he was charming, and he had a sense of humor. He was quick, witty, and sarcastic. The beast was stronger, and that’s all it comes down too.
Addiction is another of the faceless beings that takes you. Death literally ‘takes’ you, but addiction steals your soul. I think my dad was dead long before he died. All that existed was the vessel in which addiction could reign supreme.
But now- oh, but now… he is free. Free from the lies, the deciet, the pain, the suffering. The beasts claws are gone from his back, the wounds slowly fading.
And I’m free too. Free from the pain, the lies, the suffering, the broken promises… free from the thoughts that my dad doesn’t love me. He surely did. The beast was bigger than him.
‘Let your tears come. Let them water your soul.’
~Eileen Mayhew
The week between his death and his funeral was hard. I cried. Each time I cried, another sliver of my heart replaced itself. I was healing from the inside out.
The day my mother and I went to do his hair, I was appalled at his appearance. He’d gotten more gray hair since the last time I’d seen him. He had no make up on yet, and he was under harsh white lights. His face was marked from the oxygen mask, and his mouth was drawn down to one side from the breathing tube. I gasped for air, feeling like someone punched me in the stomach.
Seeing him, all I could say and think was, ‘Oh, Dad.’ He looked so bad, but he was still so handsome. I had a break down right there in the casket room at the funeral home. I hit my knees on the floor in front of the table, and cried. Cried for what I lost, what I never had, what I’d never know.
I ached. Not my body, but my soul. I closed my eyes against
the image of my father, forty-three years old, as handsome as ever, stilled by death. I again cursed Death.
My mom started about messing with his hair. There wasn’t much we could cut because of the insicion on his head from the autopsy, but we artfully arranged his hair to make sure it wasn’t seen.
I stood above him, thinking of my little sister, hurting for her as much as for myself, and cried some more. I thought about how we’d always joked that our dad couldn’t claim we weren’t his even if we wanted to. My sister looks like him, but she’s got more of her mom in her. I on the other hand, look just like him. He’d joked several years ago when I brought my prom pictures over that I looked like him in drag. And I did.
I cried some more. And the deed was done, and I had to get out of there. I cried again. I felt cleansed.
‘Love is stronger than death even though it can’t stop death from happening, but no matter how hard death tries, it can’t separate people from love. It can’t take away our memories either. In the end, life is stronger than death.’
~Author Unknown
Again, there was still time for reflection before the funeral. I cursed the lapse of time. I hated it. I wanted closure, I wanted him to be buried, I wanted it over.
My mom had given me a precious gift. I had lamented the night he died that I had nothing of his- nothing of emotional value. The next day she brought me a small tin box. She handed it to me and said, ‘I always figured you’d get this when I died. But now seems as good a time as any.’
It was red, the words ‘Love Potion’ on it’s top. It was a tiny tin box. One I’d seen many many times before. One I’d gotten into, read the note, and put it’s contents on my fingers.
It was the box that held their wedding rings. For almost twenty three years they’d sat in the box, and I’d get them out and think about a time when my mom and dad were married. They were probably happy for a time. When they divorced, my mom asked for his ring so I could have the set one day. He told her not to pawn it. She didn’t. Ironically enough, his wedding band fits my ring finger.
So for the days before the funeral, and the day of, the simple silver band resided on my ring finger. My thumb would brush across it occasionally, thoughtfully, and I felt like a part of my dad was with me. A part that had everything to do with me. A part that represented the three of us had been a family once. I was too young to remember, and don’t blame either one of them for getting divorced. Having it on my finger offered comfort. A symbol of their love, just as I was.
‘Oh, for the time when I shall sleep
Without identity.’
~Emily Bronte
Finally, the days were upon us. The viewings, and the funeral. They occurred. People came as quickly as others went. I sat in a chair and watched all the people I didn’t know cry at the casket. Some settled in chairs and talked with others, some left immediately, some milled about uncomfortably. My sister stuck by my side for the first viewing and part of the second. Then a couple of her friends showed up, so she had her support system. I stuck by my boyfriend, mom, and best friend. Still I watched, wondering who these people were, wondering what memories they shared with my dad, and what they were crying for.
Was it the loss of a friend? A relative? An old flame? A drug buddy? Did any of his dealers come? What did they think when they found out he died? That he was a cool guy and that they liked him, or damn, they’d just lost a good customer. It didn’t really matter I guess, and I didn’t have the energy to go find out. I just sat and watched and twirled the wedding band.
The next day when the funeral was done, I realized we’d all just cried all over the dead body that was nothing more than that, a dead body. His soul was gone, there was nothing there that was him but his features. He was finally buried, and that’s just it- it’s just his remains. That is no longer my father. His resting place will be marked by a headstone bearing his name, but no more. That’s all the more personal it gets. His essence is gone. It will live in our hearts and minds and souls forever.
‘People do not die for us immediately, but remain bathed in a sort of aura of life which bears no relation to true immortality, but through which they continue to occupy our thoughts in the same way as when they were alive. It is as though they were traveling abroad.’
~Marcel Proust
I once wrote something about a friend from high school who had died. I wrote, ‘The easy part is remembering, the hard part is forgetting he’s gone.’ This applies to my dad also. Our relationship was rocky, and we’d go for months without talking or seeing each other. Some days I start thinking about him, and think I should give him a call. My heart contracts as I hear a whisper, ‘You’re stupid… you can’t!’
Every time it happens, the hurt starts anew. But only for a minute. With it comes the acceptance of this is how it must be. For whatever reason, this is in the master plan. Why, I don’t know. When will the secret be revealed? Probably never. But nothing can take away the memories, and I relish in that.
‘Let children walk with Nature, let them see the beautiful blendings and communions of death and life, their joyous inseparable unity, as taught in woods and meadows, plains and mountains and streams of our blessed star, and they will learn that death is stingless indeed, and as beautiful as life.’
~John Muir
Just as death hurts, with it comes a soothing feeling. As long as you can move past your grief. I do feel as though my dad is in a better place. And no, our problems never got resolved physically, but emotionally, and metaphysically, they have.
Death is a part of life- everything dies. Trees, flowers, animals, people. But when they do, life continues all around. Maybe a new flower will take it’s place. Maybe that animal had babies that will grow up and replace an empty spot in nature. Humans aren’t dispensable, but as the pastor said at my dad’s funeral, he left behind two beautiful daughters. We won’t replace him, but we will grow and become adults and keep his memory alive within ourselves. A couple pieces of him lives on.
I look in the mirror and it’s hard sometimes. I see his eyes, the furrow of his brow, the crooked smile, the hair. It hurts my feelings, but at the same time I know that part of him lives on. And maybe one day, I’ll have children, and they’ll carry on a physical trait of mine, that originated from him. And as they grow older I’ll tell them about their Grandpa. And maybe I’ll be able to point out a feature of theirs that happened to be his.
As I write this, I’m again wearing his wedding band. And I feel my heart heal, one of the last pieces sliding into place.
And as my pain heals itself, a warm glow will fill me from the inside out, and I’ll find peace in knowing my dad is okay. He’s normal again, he isn’t under the beast’s spell any more. In that aspect, Death was a welcome visitor that fateful night. The night of March 5th, when my heart was shattered. The night my dad was released.
Mckenna
- 14.08.2020
- 13
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