Abba

Dear Daddy,

Where are you? When are you coming home? I feel like I’m forgetting what color your eyes are. It’s raining outside and the windows are blurry so I can’t look for you down our street. I’m trying to write you messages on the water paper glass, but I have to write the letters backwards so you can read them from outside, and I keep getting all mixed up.

Are you close now? I have the recordings you left of all the things you like to say to me. Like, I’m your favorite seven year old daughter in the whole world (even though I’m the only one you have), and you love me “thiiiiiiiis much”. But Daddy, my arms can’t stretch as big as yours do, so it’s hard to remember how much it is that you say you love me.  I always ask my question before I play the best recording. I played it again yesterday when the big kids knocked me down. I didn’t mind the big scrape on my knee (and you should see how big it is!), but then they laughed, and I knew they wanted to hurt me. Daddy, I wonder why that hurts more than the knee? So I asked my question, “Daddy, do you love me?” then I hit play. “Mi hija, I love you so much.” I like the recording. But when are you coming back? What if the recording breaks?

Mom says to think about all the times you’ve come back, and you always bring things I’ve never seen before. Remember the peacock feather? You made me close my eyes and touch it while you told the story of the peacocks fighting under the jungle vines. When I opened my eyes and looked at the gold rings around green and blue pools, I could see the whole story moving in their reflection. I remember now! You said the pools were your eyes so you could see me no matter where I went. So they must be the color of our fishing hole with the sunlight like a wall all around it. Mom also tells me to remember all the times you haven’t come home, because there aren’t any. I guess that’s pretty good thinking, but that doesn’t make me want you any less. The Daddy-daughter dance is tomorrow. I can go with my friend’s dad, but its hard to feel beautiful without you there to open my door and waltz when the slow songs come on. Anyways, you always pick out my dress, so how am I supposed to know what to wear? I bet I’m just the right height now to do that double spin we tried so many times last year.

Daddy, this is a secret. Put out your pinky finger. Ok, here’s mine. Sometimes, the wind talks to me. Not shiny sounds like the chimes I climb onto your shoulders to hang from the porch sky when the flowers open, but crashing and grinding. It sounds like its locking all the deadbolts in the doors, and I’m afraid you won’t be able to get back in when you come. I’m not strong enough to open them, Daddy, and I’m scared to walk down the stairs in the dark. It’s not like when we stomp up at bedtime pretending to be bears. Bears are together so they’re not scared of the dark. But I am. I never told you because I was always with you and we were always bears. I guess I didn’t know till now either.

I’m learning lots of things I wouldn’t if you were here. Like making pancakes by myself. But I don’t really like the pancakes I make. They’re flat and the wrong color – light brown instead of golden. Mom says the missing ingredient is Daddy Love, and the stores are out of it. She makes jokes because she wants me to laugh, and I do try. Then she sighs and we both agree her jokes are funnier when you’re in the kitchen to laugh at them too.

Now I’m sitting at the kitchen table and I’m trying to make a list of all the things you might bring me:

• my first pearl earrings
• a little fruit tree from the other side of the world
• a light blue hula hoop

but I know that if I can imagine it you won’t bring it. You always surprise me. And I get tired of making lists. All I really want is your arms.

Daddy? I can hear the door creaking! But all I can see is that little tatter of light coming in the crack. I just want to put my hand on your heart and listen for the knocking like you taught me, Daddy! Just to make sure. Just to make sure. Are you on the porch? I helped Mom paint the front door, do you think it’s the wrong house? But you’ve always come back, and you always say you can read the writing in the windows even when we walk outside and laugh at the crooked lines or the smudges the sun left when it dried up my letters to you. Daddy! My heart is burning and the smoke keeps going up and up. My chair fell over and I’m trying to crawl toward the door but the place you taught me to find a drumbeat is all crumbling, crumbling! Daddy are you home? Are you home?