Apostrophe to a Father

Dear Father,
I remember when you were here. We spent so much time together, whether it be on the beach, the boardwalk, or just at your home. As I am writing you this letter, I think of all of the things you did for me, for Mom, for Krystle and DeSean. You gave us shelter and love, protected us, nurtured us. Of course, you’re supposed to do that. I guess I’m just stalling.
I suppose you’re wondering why I am writing you this letter. I am because you made me stronger, made me stronger, and I didn’t know why. I now understand why, and I will use every ounce of this strength in the lines following this.
I am sorry, Father. I’m not sure it matters now. You may not know why I’m apologizing, may not think there’s a reason, and though that maybe true I still apologize. I apologize to you, for you, because of you. I apologize for making you love me, for allowing myself to grow attached to your love, your presence. As you read this letter, I hope you feel my tears, running down my face and blurring the ink as I write. I hope you feel iti in my heart, the pain and sorrow filling my handwriting like dense molasses. I want you to know that your love has scarred me, mutilated me, and that I would trade almost anything in the world to have it back. But it won’t come back, you won’t come back, You can’t come back.
Daddy, Why did you leave? You must have know the damage you would have caused, leaving us like that. You left for the world. You walked through that door, and didn’t turn around once. I want to know why, Daddy. Was it me? Was it my Mom? You’re supposed to love me. I thought you loved me! Was it a mistake? Was your faux love a shadow to cover up you hate? Your disgust? Are you disgusted of me, of our family? I want—no, need an answer. I remember when you looked at us, the way you smiled, like you could make everything alright if it wasn’t at the time, right every wrong. Was it all fake?
I still dream about you, Daddy. I wake up with the feel of the arms around me, that sense that you’re still here to protect me forever, that you could never leave. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve cried late at night, knowing you’ll never return. I’m tired of crying. I’m tired of it! You’ll never begin to fathom the abyss burned in my heart because you left. I don’t want you to try to understand me; you’ll never be able to muster up a fraction of the pain your absence had caused me. No, don’t try to understand. I want you to hurt. Even still, it won’t be enough. Because I love you, and I thought you loved me. I don’t know what to think anymore. I’m sorry, Father.
I mentioned earlier in this letter that you left us for the world. But there’s one thing you never thought about. See, even though you went to the world, you left behind the universe. Everything you revolved around, lived for. You may miss us, maybe even regret leaving, but it will never undo the damage you caused. I now know that the look in your eyes was nothing more than a mask, something to tide us over until you could make your great escape. And even with that thought in my mind, I find it sick to believe that I can still love you. I love you, Father, but I hate you.
I can’t begin to think that I can fill you’re shoes. See, you may not know it, but you left a big, empty hole when you left. Mother’s in tatters, DeSean will try, but I know he’ll fail. He hurts, too. As does Krystle, who advised me to just forget about you. But I cannot. I never will. I write this letter to you, because I want it to leave an impression on you. I want you to keep it, wherever you are, look at it over and over. I want it to leave a big hole in your heart, the way you left one in ours. Only then will I know you loved us, once upon a time. Question is, will it work? Will you feel a void in the soul when you read this. You don’t need to reply. I’ll know if I had an effect. My heart will warm with the feeling that you have accepted my words like foul and bitter alphabet soup. I’ll know, Father. But don’t reply. I’ve made an illusion, you see. It is that you are dead, that no matter what I do, you can never return. Even though you live, somewhere, I know what I speak is the truth. You loved us once, you told us all the time. You loved us. You love us. Don’t you?


Your daughter,
Tameka Armstrong