Monday, April 13, 2009

this childhood is sponsored by the letter "h"...

Dear father,

Throughout my life, these 26.8 blessed trips around the sun that i have been fortunate enough to enjoy, i have known only a shell of you. The man who used to take me to the park to play baseball as a child was often not the man who read me bedtime stories. Nighttime daddy had a strange affliction. Blame it on the moon perhaps but werewolves never carry around syringes and spoons. Daddy your not supposed to nod off to sleep before we do. We haven't even eaten dinner yet; it's 6pm. 

-Are you sick? 
-And if you are sick: than why the hell does mom yell at you so much instead of hugging you like when I have a fever?
And she definitely doesn't cut up my clothes and throw things at me. 

-What's in the brown bag daddy? 

Ok, no questions. Thank you for the Nintendo games though. 

-Why are you in "Florida" for eight months? 

-And why does the phone call lady always say "You are receiving a call from an Inmate at Wyoming Correctional Facility"Is that like a special kind of school? Is that where you are daddy?

Sometimes I wonder how much you actually there when you happened to be around physically. How often was I actually babysat by saturday morning cartoons while you were on your spaceship courtesy of your rocket-shaped needles. I wonder how a man could be defeated by a white powder and brown liquid and how selfish one would have to be to allow their children to carry their cross when you were too tired (or high) to walk with it yourself...

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