But none of these things happened to me. I was only an unwilling witness, sometimes screaming hysterically, most times silently watching the anger sucking us all under. A little girl can feel guilty for being relieved to have such anger bypass her.
Late last night I couldn't sleep. The kitchen is where I found cold cornbread leftovers. Crumbling a piece in a bowl with sugar and warm milk, I slowly spooned it into my hungry heart through my lips. Tears started to leak, along with milk dribbling from my contorted mouth. Crying and eating aren't compatible.
I never did like soggy old cornbread mush, but dad did. He shared it willingly, without knowing that being with him was the only part I relished.
He was more than that first paragraph. Much more. Last night proves the good memories never go away.
I miss my daddy.