No Dice

You are a minor bad habit.

When I caught myself staring at you for the third time that night, I felt a gravitation towards my clever vice – you facetious being! You winked after everything you said to anyone who would listen.

Jealous curls on your scalp licked your ears. I was warmed by a lock on your neck. You stood there in a dimly lit kitchen that was illuminated with your laughter. I inched closer each time you smiled. I was riveted. I told you every joke I could think of.

You are a moral weakness.

I had a fascination with you that day you took me to the park, and I finally saw you in sublime sunlight. You were nearly a shadow. Your whole body blocked out the brilliancy from the sun, but you were the entire light. I was simply standing in front of you in old shoes and new earrings, and you picked me up so I could reach the monkey bars. When the sun hit my face I could only think, “This is what it feels like to fall,” and you caught me.



In My Daddy’s Words

When I think of my father, I think of all the times I’ve said: “Dad, stop – you can’t say that. That’s embarrassing.” 

It really makes me wonder about all the times he’s told me not to say something; and come to think about it, he’s never honestly limited my endless rambling. My opinions, my stories, and my thoughts have always been encouraged by my dad. He’s never once told me, “Woobee, hush for a minute.” 

I read the birthday cards from him and see myself written between the lines. His capital letters in a large, “dad” font have guided me through my toughest writer’s block, just hoping to capture the love in a sentence that he releases in a syllable. 

I am the woman I am today because of his words. Every argument over politics, every quick retort I should’ve kept to myself, and every time I’ve cried in frustration led to every conversation about the world, every witty joke, and every fond hug and forehead kiss. 

My father is a man of few words, but I strive to be a woman who uses his expression.