In the Lingering Ripples of the Fourth of July

stillness.

only the rushing of the

unseen waves(or is it the

blood

in my ears?)and the

de

layed

thunders of

far-away explosions lighting

the darkness around

us.

our meandering gazes

along the horizon

catch sight of

these brilliant,

radiant

microcosms in

dozens of

far, far aways.

but i am not concerned with

the eyes enraptured

with

their own frenzied(man-made)light

ning.

even with the distractions

overhead and to my right and

to my left and behind,

i focus on him.

his features are faint in the

soft, quiet glow of the

orb above us,

but i have memorized them by

now.

i hear his breathing as it

matches the tide.

i feel his hands as they

pull me closer.

i smell his scent as it

mixes with the salt on the breeze.

i feel him there.

i feel me there.

i cannot contain the ardor

that bubbles inside of me,

and the only way it

knows

to manifest itself is in the

murmured sound

that comes from my stomach

and has no description.

he responds with his own

mumble, questioning

the intonation i

could not

control.

but how

on earth

can i speak

when he has

stolen

my very breath

away?

No Matter How Hard You Flap Your Arms, You're Bound to This Earth

crash.

shatter.

destroyed.

lifeless on the on-ramp

of some nameless,

numbered

exit

on some highway

in some city

in some state,

just like all the others.

the flickering of

red and white,

warning passersby

and those

stupid enough

to think that they can

escape their eventual fate

blind and almost bring us

to that end

sooner than we had hoped.

he was only trying to get

home.

"one more curve and one more

exit, and i will scoop my daughter

up

in my arms

and never let her go," he told himself

as the searing lights grew

larger,

closer,

until they were pressed against

his fractured body,

bruising and devastating

his existence.

i am quickly

distracted

by the displays of this

so-called "freedom"

and the drunken desire

to light any(every)thing on fire.

outstretch my arms.

make myself weight(it is an illusion)less.

where do you think you are

going? you've

got to get home.

you can't stop for him.

but don't worry.

we'll all get there someday,

too.

Father's Day

Our relationship isn't anything special. We did what most have done in the past and most will continue to do in the future. We weren't the first to create our own kind of waltz, where he was the lead and my feet, too small to follow and understand his movements, perched on top of his. I certainly wasn't the first to cry to songs that talked about getting older, getting married, and being given away. We weren't the first to practice the best way to field a ground ball or catch a pop fly without dropping it (you use your other hand to guard the ball once it's in the mitt). He wasn't the first to co-coach my softball team and to always encourage me, even if I purposely ran slow after getting a hit so that I could eat my melting Italian Ice in the dugout. He wasn't the first to clumsily fumble with my hair when it was long (too long), trying to understand how exactly a braid came to form (this usually happened when my mom was out-of-state). He wasn't the first to concoct strange snacks for me after I got home from school, the most notable (and delicious) being saltines with butter and jelly and his english muffin pizzas. He wasn't the first to cry as he danced with me to "Butterfly Kisses" at my Sweet 16, when my feet were too big to sit on top of his.

No, he wasn't the first to do any of those things - and it'd be foolish to think that he'd be the last. But somehow, it feels as though these memories are ours and ours alone. We both know that there are thousands of other fathers and daughters who have had done the same things, only in their own particular flavor. Yet these are ours. They do not belong to anyone else.

I often wonder how many memories are buried deep in the cranial labyrinth of my brain that I've since forgotten. I wonder if I'll remember them as I get older, or if they're destined to collect cerebral dust as they fall to the wayside. Perhaps it doesn't matter whether I can recollect them all or not; perhaps the point is that they're there, they exist, and maybe that is enough.