Daddy cleared his throat like he always did
when he had something important to say.
"Lynna-Girl, I am here on behalf of me and your Mom
to apologize
for making you leave the nest too soon."
I was young at the time
so instead of letting him talk
I brushed it all off.
"Oh Daddy, don't worry about it,"
I said.
"Things worked out."
"But are you happy?"
Daddy asked.
"Your Mom had a dream that you weren't."
But again
I brushed it all off.
"Daddy,"
I said brightly
cheerfully
jumping up to fill the sugar bowl
get the milk out
because Daddy liked his coffee blonde and sweet
"your coffee's ready."
God forbid that I should be weak
or weepy
or show my emotions.
So me and Daddy talked about the weather
the brakes on his car
his new church
Mom's health
the babies who were almost grown by now
chit-chat
but not about what mattered between us.
After he left I squared my shoulders
rinsed out his coffee cup
and got back to the business of living
cleaning
cooking
washing
because that's what I thought life was all about.
Years later
at Daddy's funeral
it came to me that I could have run into his arms
and cried
and let him say the words I needed to hear
and been comforted
and comforted him
but at the time I was young
and didn't know that being phoney baloney
and pretending that things are fine when they're not
is a waste of precious time.
So I let Daddy die
with that horrible thing still between us.
Music Playing: Daddy's Little Girl
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This story is a continuation of Diary of a Preacher's Daughter.
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