9/18/12

Dear Papa,

It's not over.
It didn't end.
It never will.

There is no time, no distance that could make me
any less your daughter.
You knew that already, I think.
I didn't understand when you
said that I had
grown up years ago.
This was only a marker, the
bubble baths and crayon art, my
formative years, so well documented in
Mama's office, so that people always ask if she has
grandchildren,
had ended long ago.

Every bubble we blew,
every story we read,
the formulas you struggled to teach me and
the eggs for dinner when Mama was
out late,
the articles you found for me,
the Sinatra songs you learned to like,
they're with me here.

Your presence is in the
curl in my hair and the
way I read poetry, for
impact, in how I
like my coffee and
how I like my
people.

I grew up your daughter, and was afraid that grown I wouldn't be.
Now I know that your impact
is unchanging.

When I go, and
when you go, it
makes no difference.

It's only miles.

Love,
yr daughter