Donald Milton Nichols

i do not like Grief. he scares me. he makes me that little girl again, awkward, crying in the corner, not knowing how to deal (wondering if i'll ever learn to deal).

i hate how he comes barging into my heart, as if he's allowed, bringing with him all those things i don't want to care about anymore, insisting on my attention (not realizing i regard him a stranger).

with all the liberty in the world, he comes and unravels everything i neatly tied up. he goes digging thru and dumping out what i neatly stored away. he rips through me effortlessly and then just as fast--two minutes time--leaves, his mess left for me to deal with (but i've never learned to deal).

my dad is dead. that's just how it is.

in all my ugliness i'll admit that i don't so much miss my dad, but the idea of having a dad. while he was alive, i never had the dad i wanted, that my heart needed, that i felt i should have. but i always had the hope that one day, maybe when we grew older, i'd have that dad. you know, the one who calls you on your birthday and knows your age, the one who hugs you when your sad and hurts for you, the one who tells you he loves you, and on good days, maybe even tells you all the reasons why. i had a friend once whose father sent her a dozen roses on valentines day, every single year. i didn't know dads could do that.

my hope for a father died with my father. and i'm left with neither the form or the idea.

my dad is dead. that's just how it is.