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by punkroque

by punkroque

Dear, Dad

I never actually met you. I was 3 when you died. Mum talks about you a lot, I've seen pictures, I've seen your half of the bedroom upstairs. But it isn't the same, Dad.

I want to see you here. I want to hear you laugh. I want to see your smile. I want to smell the after shave you used, the one Mum keeps in the bathroom cupboard. I want to hear just how great a singer your were. I especially want to hug you, Dad. I want to feel your arms tight around me, holding me against you. I want to know my Dad from more than a head stone.

Mum always said that God just needed your angel back. God wanted you to watch over someone else, Dad. Why couldn't you have stayed here, and watched over us? God makes me angry sometimes, but I know that everything happens for a reason. Maybe you're watching over us, keeping us safe. I just wish you were, here. Things have changed a lot, Dad.

Mum won't fess up to it, but at night, when she thinks I'm sleeping, she cries. Hard. She sobs, and sobs and sobs, and Dad, I can't help her. I just listen. I imagine her curled over your wedding photos, the album tucked close to her heart, her makeup smeared under her eyelashes, her hair pulled back in it's usual ponytail.

Your birthday's coming up. I've made a plan, Dad. I don't know where Mum and I will get the money, but that's okay. I'll figure out something. We've got 16 days. That's it, 16 days to remember you. A little over two weeks. Mum said that you took her on a hot air balloon for one of your anniversaries. So, that's what we're going to do. Mum and I are going to take 16 hot air balloons, and we're going to visit all the places you loved. I miss you Daddy.

16 balloons. 16 days. All in your honor, Dad.

All my love,

Jessica R. Payne