All That Time

Kira waits at her bedroom window, running over to catch a glimpse of a passing car periodically. She runs to other windows, trying to get the best vantage point of the driveway. The car she waits for takes its sweet time… five minutes pass, then ten…

I sit back in the rocking chair, the one my mother gave me. Every time I rock it creaks, back and forth, back and forth. The support bars on the back dig into my spine. I don’t know why I keep it. It is not even comfortable. But then again, I do know why I keep it. I keep it because it is all I have left of her.

My mind wanders as I watch Kira’s little feet patter down the halls, as I watch her dress bob up and down with her, as I hear her giggles as cars pass… still not the one she wants to see. The car she wants to see is beat-up. An old Toyota they probably don’t even manufacture any more. And it belongs to my father.

I remember all that time. The time from when I was younger. The time when life seemed perfect so long as Mom and I were together. Mom was the one who taught me to ride a bike, to play soccer, to write stories and use my imagination… she was the light in my life.

I remember all that time. When I was just a toddler. When her and I would go get lunch on Wednesdays because the local sandwich shop gave kids free cookies on Wednesdays. I remember we went to the park and she would sit on the same bench and watch me. I would run around and swing on the swings...

I remember all that time. When she came to school and ate lunch with me on my birthday. When we would play outside and go on bike rides together. When I would invite friends over and she would give us graham crackers and baby carrots to eat.

I remember all that time. I remember when she would sit with me for hours and play video games or Monopoly. When I tried to learn to skateboard, but she was way better even though she had never tried it either. She was incredible.

I remember all that time. When I pushed her away because I thought it made me cool. When I acted like I hated her because it was what my friends did to their parents. I really loved her.

I remember all that time. When I moved away and called her every night asking for advice. When I was in the real world alone, but it never felt like it. She was always there with a helping hand.

But now she's gone. Forever.

The tears well in my eyes…

The sting is still fresh.

And I remember all that time...but Dad isn't there. I wanted to know him, and I wanted him to know me. I don't know him; he's still a stranger to me. I wanted to share epic stories about things I did with him like my friends did. I wanted to be able to say we ate dinner as a family every night and that we played board games and ate pizza every Friday night.

I wanted him to walk me in to the classroom on the first day of school with Mom, I wanted him to take pictures of me in front of the school with Mom. I wanted him to be sitting next to Mom at my school plays, I wanted him to watch my soccer games next to Mom.

My life was great, but it often felt like something was missing. It was Dad.

I swore I would give my child a complete life, with a father. And now I can't even do that.

I check my watch again, it’s been twenty minutes. Kira sits on the ground and plays with her toys, tired of waiting. I remember all that time I spent waiting. Waiting on Dad. Now, I either have become more patient or I have gotten used to waiting on Dad. Kira only glances up from her make-believe land once or twice to catch a car zooming past. I pull myself out of the chair and stare out the window. I feel too tired to do anything else, so I sit back down. I’m tired all the time. I wish I was still a little Kira, running to different windows to catch a glimpse of the bright cars passing.

I miss Mom and I feel Dad’s pain. But when I think back on the memories we have as a family, I remember he is not in most of them. Birthdays, holidays, school concerts, he’s not there. I remember all that time. I wonder why I tried to please him all those years. Because I know what a good father should look like, and he is not one of them. And he never was. The thought brings up fresh tears that threaten to spill over.

He is a stranger to me. He never told me stories from when he was little, like Mom did. I barely remember celebrating his birthday.

It almost feels like he didn’t try.

But still…

He finally shows up, nearly forty minutes late.

“Where have you been?” I ask him in a tight voice.

He doesn’t respond, he only looks at the floor. One of the very few things he taught me not to do. When someone is speaking to you, you look them in the eyes.

“Kira thought you weren’t coming,” I say, “You weren’t there for me but you need to be here for her.”

He finally looks at me, his eyes full of tears. I’ve never seen my dad cry.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, “I’m so, so sorry,”

And that is when I realize. He’s a stranger to me, but he didn’t want to be. He is not apologizing for being late. He is apologizing for all that time.