Daddy's Not Daughter

    As I replay another paining debacle with my mother in my mind's eye, I sit here typing into a blurring screen. I've said before, I don't cry. This is true. Tears don't ever leave my eyes, just the softness of my vision is boosted to the point where all I can make out is the general shape of an object. More than anything, I need a person. A physical, in front of my face, play-with-my-hair person, not a machine with some keys or a phone where it's not even guaranteed that I am talking to someone. It could be a robot with a human's voice on the phone. And all I hear during this is my father's tantalizing voice in the distance, chuckling occasionally, listening mostly, and injecting his software expertise when desired/needed. "Don't bother me now," would melt his smile if I appeared with my foggy eyes. Broken heart or broken leg, he wouldn't care. All that matters is everything but Jenny. No, I know that's a lie. I matter. People are human and work falls before family in some occasions, but I do wonder what would happen if I left right now, went running and I slipped on the iced-over sidewalks and died before I received help. Or while you were gone, being anywhere but with me, I was murdered. Would you think twice about telling me to take a hike?
     Thump-thump-thump-thump quickly interrupt my thoughts. IT'S DADDY! His running shoes smack against the hardwood floors and down the stairs in hasty steps. I call his name through my closed door. "I'll be there in a sec'." He replies. I wait patiently, staring at the wall until I hear his shoes distantly become louder and louder, slowly drawing nearer and nearer. I place my laptop below my feet as I prepare to see my Dad for the first time today. His feet forsake me. I sit here as he walks past my room, closes his door and begins to work feverishly once more. Not remembering for a second he had just told me a lie.
     Out from all this, I finally can formulate (not comprehend - no, I'll never see how you could do this with such ease) this stinging clause. The only place Daughter comes before Job is in the dictionary. But, Dad, don't you worry, you're doing this pretty well already.