an ode to my dad (suicide)

And I Love You (rough draft, free-style poem)

"And I love you"

Why is it that when I think of my father,
I prefer to picture him as a child?
I see myself gathering up this little boy,
holding him close, rocking him, reassuring him.
It's as if I can only feel that our mourning is actually mutual if I imagine it just so.
I wonder what he would think of his adult-self.
If the manner of his future death would break his little heart.
Could things have been changed?

I see him on the cold basement floor.
Blood is puddled about his head.
The same blood I listened to pump through his heart just the other night.
As I fell asleep against his chest, watching our last movie together.

There is no exit wound.
Hollow-point ammunition.
I won't know this until later.
I can't touch you.
I know you're dead.
I run.

I'm four.
We're painting the dog house.
I have paint all over me.
Your smile is so big.
I love you.

I'm six.
We're dancing at a wedding.
I'm wearing the komono you bought me in Japan.
I'm a princess.
I love you.

I'm nine.
We're cutting down a pine tree for christmas.
Hot chocolate.
You always let me pick the tree.
And I love you.
I'm twelve.
I hate school.
I have no friends.
You transfer me.
And I'm happy.

I'm sixteen.
I'm horrible.
I mess up.
You forgive me.

I'm eighteen.
We go to Chile.
We cowboy it.
A quiet understanding.

I'm twenty-one.
I hold you during one of your breakdowns.
I try to comfort you.
I feel like the real adult for the first time.

I'm twenty-three.
We sit on your dock.
Watching the hurricane bands pass overhead.
We talk for hours.
My hair is a dreadlock.

I'm twenty-four.
You give me your Harvard metal.
I don't know why just yet.
I watch you graduate from Stetson.
I'm so proud.

I run.
The phones don't work.
This isn't real.
I go outside and scream to a neighbor.
But the scream isn't mine. It isn't real.
This isn't happening.

I'm twenty-five.
It's been a year.
I miss you.
Nothing is right.
But it's okay dad.
I rock the child in my mind.
It's okay.
And I love you.