Wonder Years
I see my hand-- small, fat, and childlike curled around his index finger. He's dozed off, leaving me his long, delicate finger to clutch. My already small hand is dwarfed as it clings to his finger- this large... ADULT finger! Suddenly I see him as very much larger than myself- though sleeping he is imposing, terrifyingly huge! Growing larger, distorted in perspective, I am very small again. out of my body.
Walking with my father, he would offer me his index finger rather than holding my hand. An affectionate gesture, Happy-- playful. I am four years old: squeaking voice, fat cheeks, and ponytail- skipping across a parking lot to the grocery or back to the truck fresh from the park. His hands were so big! The powerful, tickling fingers would grip my knee suddenly! and I would shriek and squirm- they were viselike, nothing I could do to avoid the kneetickles!
It is the image of a man who loves his daughter, would do anything for her happiness- of a child looking up at the man in blind adoration. This is her father! He would give up ten years of smoking at her weak, chirping requests. Go back to school, earn a degree. Sacrifice to build her a better future. Give her things he never had the opportunity to have. This is a father's love.
She will grow, change appearance, learn the ways of the world, and eventually leave him to build her own future independent from his strong, coarse, comforting hands. She would grow to forget them but in passing, a faint memory. They will part ways, and she will forget. Grow disdainful of his hands, constantly reaching out to her- his hands that remember what hers no longer can.
"What's all this?"
I've been found out! He presses his fingers to my eyes, carefully wiping the moisture away. He holds my hand properly now, but I can't find the words to explain myself. Something mumbled about my father, the way time estranges, and how he will die someday- possibly before I can get to know him again. I've spent so long being my own person I've forgotten how to be his little girl.
But now I'm someone else's little girl.
Walking with my father, he would offer me his index finger rather than holding my hand. An affectionate gesture, Happy-- playful. I am four years old: squeaking voice, fat cheeks, and ponytail- skipping across a parking lot to the grocery or back to the truck fresh from the park. His hands were so big! The powerful, tickling fingers would grip my knee suddenly! and I would shriek and squirm- they were viselike, nothing I could do to avoid the kneetickles!
It is the image of a man who loves his daughter, would do anything for her happiness- of a child looking up at the man in blind adoration. This is her father! He would give up ten years of smoking at her weak, chirping requests. Go back to school, earn a degree. Sacrifice to build her a better future. Give her things he never had the opportunity to have. This is a father's love.
She will grow, change appearance, learn the ways of the world, and eventually leave him to build her own future independent from his strong, coarse, comforting hands. She would grow to forget them but in passing, a faint memory. They will part ways, and she will forget. Grow disdainful of his hands, constantly reaching out to her- his hands that remember what hers no longer can.
"What's all this?"
I've been found out! He presses his fingers to my eyes, carefully wiping the moisture away. He holds my hand properly now, but I can't find the words to explain myself. Something mumbled about my father, the way time estranges, and how he will die someday- possibly before I can get to know him again. I've spent so long being my own person I've forgotten how to be his little girl.
But now I'm someone else's little girl.