I still call my Dad “Dada”
I still call my Dad “Dada”.
Phonetically, it was easy for me as a child, the name just stuck.
I feel a bit silly reminiscing that this nickname I concocted when I was three
became the main designator for my father, but growing up with him
I learned to hold onto the things he said.
I remember the look in his eyes when I told him
I didn’t remember passing the soccer ball with him
when I was five,
how heavy they were.
To him it must have felt like a rejection,
a refusal to acknowledge a memory
he cherished so.
You see, I grew up resenting my father.
I sharpened my comebacks like
silver blades to a werewolf as I drove home
ready to feel his wrath.
Yearning for his approval, I hung onto every word he said,
only to internalize the ones
that hurt the most.
I moved away.
I wanted an escape from what had become unbearable,
only to realize that what had become so painful
was the hatred for myself that I had fabricated,
as if my mind was a manufacturing plant of misconceptions.
I miss him,
and find myself clinging onto every word he says,
in an effort to soak up every conversation that I now cherish.
I can’t help but think of him
as I watch the waves roll in,
the snow blowing across the street,
or the sun rising above the boulder ridden mountains,
casting shadows that reach for me just like he does.
When I was a kid I hugged my dad because Mom told me to,
now I wonder if my hugs feel different to him.
As he blows out his candles I notice the tears in his eyes,
and wonders if he sees mine.
I wish I remembered passing the soccer ball with him.
Author Statement: Ryan Hedrick is a recent SDSU graduate pursuing a Multiple Subject Teaching Credential. He loves to express himself through writing and music.