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The smell of you-

like pipe tobacco and budget cologne.

Sitting quietly most of the time.

Until-

"Becky,"

(only you can call me that)

"Come here, girl."

I was nine years old.

And, you would-

play me the new song you wrote; tell me a story; postulate, preach, philosophize.

Or, we would sit by the creek, trying to catch a fish.

But, really, just sitting

in silence.

When I was with you- I didn't have to wear shoes;

or, say I believed in things I DO NOT,

or, talk

or, wear dresses

or, pretend that I wasn't smart.

Then- you smelled like alcohol.

You sobbed, ranted, raved-

pacing back and forth

falling on the ground.

I was only twelve years old-

trying to: hide your pistols, cook for you, clean, to be strong, to be an adult.

I wanted to save you,

but I could not.

I have tried to save everyone since then.

I was fourteen when you gave up;

I was on my own.

Now, I don't know what you smell like.

I am thirty-four.

We do not know each other's lives.

We have become triggers to each other-

to memories of a past we both wish we could forget.

Still, sometimes, when I am really sad, I dail your phone.

Through tears I say,

"I love you, Daddy."

You ask what is wrong,

but I NEVER tell you!