He
(For my father)

He held my little hands and
Clapped them together as he laughed,
I was his only child,
His little girl,
His pride and joy,
All that he lived for.
He would come home from work and
Look for me in my crib, and
When my eyes opened wide with wonder and surprise,
He lifted me and held me to him.
Although so young,
I felt loved in a very special way,
And did not understand what happened
Years later – at the time
I was about six years old he
Became a stranger who
Inadvertently kept on hurting me,
Sometimes still lovable and hugging me to him,
And then in the same moment,
He would slap me about until I was bruised,
Crying out in pain and emotional turmoil,
I didn’t understand what happened to the Daddy that once loved me,
Who may have still loved but constantly betrayed me-
Sometimes he would look at me with a deadpan face,
He never held my hands, still little
And clapped them together, or
Sang to me, and thought he could not carry a tune,
I missed the calming lullabies he used to sing to me every night,
Or when he read me bedtime stories
About saints and princesses-
I was once his own little princess, and
I felt unloved at these moments of upheaval
When he would beat me with the back of his hand or
Rap my nose with a metal rod,
Causing my nose to bleed and tears of
Despair and unfathomable disbelief to stream down my face as I sobbed…
What happened to t his man, who was no longer my man, I wondered,
Who had become a stranger to me?
I would wonder as I put my face into my little hands at night and wept alone,
I had been his pride and joy for those few years and I felt
None but hated and betrayed by this monstrous ogre.
My heart was wrenched at the time I saw him slap my mother’s arm
And he angrily stormed out-
And one day he came back many years later he decided
To become a man again,
His voice softened a million times if
That was possible to happen, and he never struck me again.
I was fourteen years of age when he nearly fell to his knees and
Begged me to forgive him,
He reached out to take my hands still small, as they would always be,
And as I let him, I did none but weep in his arms-
For here was my father telling me he was wrong,
That he made mistakes and was sorry,
And to me that is what makes a man
More than if he were to do a hundred push up as a day or
To lift two hundred pound weights-
The inner strength to apologize and turn his life back in time again
To the days when he was a gentler soul.
I was too big to be lifted from my bed and held to his heart
But not too big or too old to tell him I loved him,
And for him to sing a lullaby to me,
No matter how far off key
It was still beautiful,
And I know now if he were still alive,
I would be proud to be seen with him and
To walk with my arm around his waist with no shame,
But with utmost pride-
For in my own way it would be saying-
“This man is my father, and I am proud that he is my father,
And I am proud to be seen with h him…”

Claudia Krizay (schizoclaud)