Fly Away On a Hummingbird

I guess it's time for me to tell it.

Friday was a snapshot of priorities. A friend's birthday, I make my way over to my phone through laughing bodies, and there are people who have been there.

Specifically, my mother.

I knew what she had to tell me before I put the phone to my ear.

What I did not know, however, was how human I could be.

I felt my knees on the ground, and what came out of my mouth was a wail that could have frozen half the heritage of anyone's blood.

My father laid down on his couch with the heat up high on Friday afternoon, turned on the tv, scratched Sally between the ears, and left this world.

The drink beat the reds.

When I was little and could not sleep, I would pull out a picture of my father in a teal kiss the cook apron and try to make myself feel what I would when he died.

I never knew why a child before the age of cursive knowledge would do such a thing, but I think I do now.

I worshiped him. However, something in my bones always gradually tucks religion away as a storybook.

I was learning to mourn him before I didn't remember how to love him how he was.

I hoped for my father, but I cannot forget that he was Samson between pillars.

Yesterday I lost my mind and became that little girl again, and ran to Lovely.

But today, there is a reverence for the pain I could imagine years and years ago, when I was convinced the man only drank Coca-Cola, and cigarettes were beautiful boxes I got to play against the side of the truck.

His blood stills runs through my veins regardless of what form his life exists.

And I do miss you, Dad.