<font color=greenDaddy’s HOME

During the summer months, my sisters and I used to sit on top of the old 5 ft rust colored wooden fence which would stretch across our side yard facing 108th street. All 6 of us would wait for daddy to come home from work. While waiting for daddy, we would entertain each other by playing made up games like Bang Bang your dead. One sister would be the shooter and pick off each sister one at a time. The bullet ridden sister would fall off the fence in full dying dramatic style. Daddy would finally pull into the drive way in his Namond station wagon and as usual he would see his girls sprawled out dead on the lawn.

I have noticed as of lately that I’m calling my boyfriend “daddy”. I remember that my grandmother would call my grandfather “daddy” I always thought this was a weird thing to do and now look at me I’m doing the same thing. Why I’m doing this??? Is it because he has three kids? Maybe because I want to have a baby and calling him daddy makes me feel good or maybe calling him daddy brings me some sort of weird comfort from the on going grief I have inside of me over my father’s death 2 1/2 years ago, nevertheless, I call him daddy. BB doesn’t seem to mind at all.

On a hot July day thirty years later here I’m sitting on the lawn and waiting for “daddy” to pull up instead of the old Nomad he is driving a big black Chevy truck. I continue to feel the excitement from so many years ago the anticipation of the arrival and home from a hard day at work, alas, I’m still sitting up but not all sprawled out on the yard.