Too Late

He’s coming back. After all these years – they told me he’s coming back. And instead of feeling joyful and eager – I feel nothing. I feel like I don’t believe it. I feel like they’re just repeating the same words over and over again, and the result will be the same it always was: he won’t come. He’ll find a reason and say: next year, baby. Next year.
It’s been over 10 years. The first few I was really eager every time they said he was coming back. Hah! I really believed he was coming back. After that I grew weary, distrustful, and now I’m just down right pessimistic. They told me he’s coming back, and in my head I thought:
Yeah.
Right.
They told me he’s coming back and in my head I thought: After what?
They told me he’s coming back and in my head I wanted to say out loud: I waited for you all these years. You were in my head all the time. Your face was what I saw the first thing I woke up, and last thing when I went to bed. I think I loved you more than I loved mom. I didn’t just want you in my life, I needed you. You were the first man in my life, and you left me. And I have been looking for you ever since, in every man I ever met. If you were bad, if you were terrible, maybe it would have been easier for me to let go of you. But you were the greatest dad in the world. You took us swimming in the sea every weekend. You bought me ice cream every single time I saw you. You carried me on your shoulders whenever I got tired from walking when you took me out on your long walks. When I walked I always held your hand. I remember you calling every day around lunchtime just to make sure I had lunch. I remember that it was routine to go to the park every weekend when we had school, and we spent summer holidays with you and went to the beach. I was so used to holding your hand that one time I reached out for you and I didn’t know you had a cigarette in your hand, and I burnt myself. I remember how bad you felt when I pulled away, how you grabbed my little hand and rubbed my little fingers with your big hands until the pain went away, and for that whole night you checked my hand and kissed it and said how sorry you were, even though it wasn’t your fault. Next morning the moment you saw me you checked my hand to see if there was a scar, and there wasn't. You must’ve felt so bad all night – I know how it feels to see a child you love get hurt and think: if only it was me, I’d be able to handle the pain, why did it have to happen to her? Now I know how you felt, but at that time I just felt lucky.
I remember how you made up silly little songs just to make us laugh all the time. I still remember what you smelt like, what you sounded like, how you laughed, even after all these years. My own face reminded me of you, all around me people never let me forget that I was my father’s daughter. I remember how handsome you were, with your soft curly hair, your brown eyes, your wide smile, your height. My brother and I look exactly like you. The thing with the memory of a person who absent is that it tends to take a certain shape, and it doesn’t change with time. I know you’re older now. I know you must have wrinkles on your forehead. Maybe you’re not as tall as I remember you, and your teeth aren’t as white as I remember them. Maybe you’re not as strong as you were, or as smart, or as wise, but I can’t seem to get that in my head. To me you’re exactly who you were when you left, and I’m worried about the shock I will get when I see you and find out how much you’ve changed.
But then again, I still don’t believe you are coming back. I’m sorry dad, I didn’t mean for this to happen: but I forgot you. I don’t know how, I don’t remember when exactly I started spending a whole day not thinking about you, and not crying for you at night. I definitely know that I never expected to forget you, but it happened. My life happened, and you became just a memory of a person who was there once in my life, and then disappeared. Someone I thought I would never, ever stop missing. I'm 20 now, I need a husband, not a father. You're coming back this time, that's great. But you're too late. Your're 10 years too late.