My Daddy. His big strong arms embracing my three-year-old body after a nightmare, “Its ok sweetie,” he said calming me down a bit. “You’re ok,” he whispered quietly into my ear, so as not to wake my mother. I stifled cries as my Daddy, my father, was comforting me.
It’s just a blip on the radar of my mind, but it’s still with me. The faint smell of sweat on his bear chest, his short black curly hair slightly rumpled from sleep, the steady rise and fall of his chest to signify air moving in and out of his lungs, and the rhythmic “lub, dub” of his beating heart. Eventually I fell back asleep, so my dad carried my 24-pound frame back into my room.
There are not very many happy memories I have of my father. My parents got divorced around the time I was three, seeming to halt our relationship as soon as it was starting. I love my father dearly, but as all humans do, he made many mistakes. I keep this memory close at hand; to ward off all other memory’s I have of my father that aren’t so innocent.
In the event that I go to, hear, or see pictures of Yellowstone National Park I cringe. I cringe in remembering the horrific time I spent there with my father. The drunken stupor, the throwing up, the drunk driving, the wrists in handcuffs, all placed into the mind of a 6 year old. Forever. Forever in the depths of the memory bank of information, called my brain. The long slow car ride back to the ranger station, sitting at a table talking to an officer about my father, what was he doing? Did he hurt you? I don’t know, I wanted to scream at them, just leave me alone, take me to my mother.
The memories I have of him will always be there. I have been trying over the years to replace them with good things, but they keep coming back, keep returning into my subconscious. I love my father dearly, but what he did will always come back to haunt me. Comming back to the fond memeory of my three year old life helps me get through those other rough memories, but I dont beleive i will ever be the same.