My Dad is my best friend. He is the one that gets me, the one that understands my overly sensitive, hyper emotional way of being. He understands my need for open pastures and my love of the sweet smell of Senior horse grain and calf milk replacement... It's weird, I get it. For us it's the norm. He taught me to keep my heels not too deep into the stirrup, and how to trailer a wild mustang.
I've put down childhood horses, held my baby calf as she passed away, named every last one of my pigs and chickens and goats and turkeys, and yeah, I slept with the tiniest, cutest potbelly piglet for part of my life; RIP Ollie.
We've experienced life and death together.
Life on the hobby farm, and life striving for this grandiose life we both saw.
I used to be his shadow. Wherever he was, I was. I admired this man like he must have hung the moon; he did, I know.
He took me dress shopping. When we would fix fence, he'd dig the holes and fill them back in so I would feel like I was doing it. When we would build chicken coops, he'd give the nail a hard hit to get it started so I only had a little work. He made me smart, he made me driven, he made me a lot of...well, me.
Fast forward through these dreamy years of inseparable daddy-daughter bond, insightful conversations, yodeling and laughing our heads off on horse back rides and eating Beanie Weenies with a pocket knife, and here we are today.
I'm 24.
Yet I often feel like that frail, frilly-pink dressed little girl who needs her Dad; who looks up to her Dad like he hung the entire night sky. I need his advice, his strength, and his unwavering love for me.
I need his humor, most of all. I need his understanding of me before I tell him what's wrong. I need him to fix my car and fix my heart when they've been broken down. I need a kick in the ass when I'm being stubborn, and a five minute hug when I'm sad.
I need my Dad, like a 9 year old girl needs her Dad.
Most of all, I need my Dad happy.
Back from the surgeries, the seizures, the postictal memory loss, the pain and confusion. Before the days of war, before the days of losing your son, before the days of the market crashing, before the days of vodka, and before the days of brain surgeries.
Because I'm tired of finding some blanket statement for how I feel. I'm tired of covering. I'm tired of living some double life.
I want my Dad back.
I can't lose you and I'm tired of clawing to keep you alive. To keep your memory alive.
The hardest part of this is learning to build a relationship with someone I don't know. Someone YOU don't know.
Because I'm hanging on to my 9 year old self, and you need my adult self to care for you.
So Dad, I love you.
I'll hold your hand like you held mine. I'll walk you down stairs when you're feeling weak. I'll tell you the same story fifty times like that story you used to tell me when we'd ride horses over and over and over again until you were blue in the face. I'll take you clothes shopping and not say a word when you look like a geek, just like you did when I picked the most outrageous dresses.
I'm here for you, like you've been there for me.
My, my how time changes things.
Thanks for hanging the night sky for me, Dad; I'm using it to look into tonight and pray for your health and happiness.
To all the frilly-pink-dressed little girl's at heart reading this, I'm wishing health and happiness for your Dad too. Here's me hoping you can find that blind, childhood love you once possessed, and love with every fiber of your being. Make amends. Reach out. Love...
To all the Dads who hung the night sky; thank you. The world wouldn't be as bold, daring, bright or loving without you; the world needs you, fathers. Your little girls need you.
From your baby girl who still needs you in this big ol' city,
TheWordMedic// Bean // HomeTeam // Your Bohemian Princezca
I love you, Dad.
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