a removed telling of a familar tale, by m.

this story is an old one. it is about a father and his daughter. but it never was the way it was suppose to be, and so the names which signify much lay in ruin. and ever since she was very young there arose between them an abyss. as she grew he was never there, could not afford the time and she was not the daughter he needed her to be. she had a contentious mouth. she argued. she did not bow with respect and adoration at his title and revere him but demanded instead he live up to all its implications because he was a man, an adult, a father. and often the weight was too much to comprehend and he could not bear it. father. head of the house. support. spiritual. . . she had lost faith before the time where memory takes hold. and he did not fight for it but let it drop countless times with anger, pride and impotent gestures for control. and yet many times she was assured of his love by her mother but never did the word pass his lips. never did he hug her or she know what it was to feel an affectionate embrace. but people do not think of these things when they think of father and daughter. and yet, this daughter has never known them. her father has always been far away. wounded by her words, any gesture she might make never enough. she could not reach him. many days over the years she yearned for his death, because living with him was like living with an angry and pathetic ghost. and she moved away. but debt and circumstance and her love for her mother drew her back and as much as she forgave them, had compassion for their imperfection his shell still rose her to a rage, at a word, at his arrogance, his ignorance, his inability to breach the way things were with the way things were suppose to be. and no matter how many stories she told of the difficulty, of the spite that rules him even now, people cannot understand how little in his mind he sees her. cannot hear her say his name with no response. dad. and as often she tried his dumb depressed look would snap it all back so no progress was made. and that if i could slip him a pill called therapy and medication i would do it. you will say even now this is a one-sided story. but these facts remain: he has never said he loves me, he has never hugged me. and when on christmas we suggested we find something to watch or listen together as a family he suggested we watch whatever it was in my room. alone. on christmas. because even the signifier of such a holiday and such a time meant very little to a man who is selfish and trapped in a silent desperate scream, as his body edges toward death and he hunches, stoops and shuffles. only the knowledge that i should not wish for his death keeps me from uttering it too sincerely, that instead his redemption, that the better of his humanity would bring him to his knees. that he would see. but i still remain on the cutting edge of hate. waiting with a breath to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. at when mom and i played a geography game over a 30min drive he finally muttered in impatience, yellowstone. jesus-christ. because we had run out of things that began with y. and i want that to be funny. how he does not speak. only talks about himself. plays the victim, how now, he sees his mortality and stares at the wall and will not open his presents because we yelled at him and called him selfish. but no, it's not funny. it's a tragedy of a man's life who will have a eulogy but not love, have everything exactly the way he wants but not a daughter.