zeroknowing
I got up quietly, went out the side door, snuck around the back, and there was my father sneaking a cigerette, too.
I got up quietly, went out the side door, snuck around the back, and there was my father sneaking a cigerette, too.
The sadness and disappointment in my father's voice once I told him I killed the crab moved me to tears.
When my dad finally decided that having a gay child was better than having a dead child, we started talking again.
It's a good thing the local news camera was only shooting from the chest up, because other than his tuxedo jacket, he was wearing fishnets, army boots, and not much else.
I had never seen my father cry until he found my pet bunny Coco dead in my backyard.
I did not say goodbye to my Dad as he left for work the last time.
I remember distinctly the last time my daddy told me he was proud of me, because I think that's the last time I'm ever going to hear it.
While driving home and contemplating what my father said to me, I realized how terrified I am by the idea of doing anything for 30 years.
While he is in Alaska living an adventure, I am here, missing my father.
In order to feel as if he had some sort of control over his cancer, my father would search the streets for a dollar in change before each chemo session.
As I tried to get up from the sofa, my still-sleeping baby girl rolled over, grabbed my shirt with both tiny hands, and would not let go.
I was grateful to my father for finding the ointment until I realized it had expired nineteen years earlier.
When I found you sitting dead in your chair, my first thought was, "Who's going to give me away at my wedding?"
When I was seven I made my dad a Father's Day card that said, "Dad, thanks for always taking me to the beer store."
After hearing from my mother that my father had lung cancer, the only thing I knew to do was light up a cigarette.
My father died when I was six and the day after, I wrote in my diary that I was feeling better.
My dad was slowly bleeding to death by the roadside some 100 meters away when I was washing the dishes for the first time in my life.
My dad, always looking for a bargain, picked up an ugly, dying, needles-falling-off tree on Christmas Eve; five hours later, he was dead and the tree was still there.
Saving 100 bucks is more important to my father than me not having to spend 6 hours in the Atlanta airport waiting for a connecting flight.
My father died as I asked my grandmother why she was crying.
I swung the axe convinced I could show my dad a thing or two about cutting wood, but the lesson I learned that day was taught by my toe.
While eating artichokes, one of his favorite dishes, Daddy told us how one night out walking he'd found a shoebox on the pier in Panama and when he opened the lid, inside was a dead baby.
After I read that email, I wished the pain in my stomach was a result of being punched rather than finding out that my father never really loved me.
Perhaps it was karmic retribution that in rising to hug my father goodbye, my kneecap dislocated, and I never got that hug.
I learned that my father had written a Cold War-era spy novel from a eulogist at his funeral.
Right before my father died nearly 20 years ago, he told me to quit smoking, and last month I finally did.
It wasn't until after my father passed that I realized I was meant to take his place as my hero.
Tears poured down my cheeks when I heard my Dad was going to Iraq.
I would never tell my family this, but I blame my father's wife for his death.
I fear that people would believe me to be a malingerer, and even my estranged father, upon hearing about the dilemma which my symptoms presented, commented, "I think you're allergic to work."
I never knew what I wanted from life, except to be a better father to my children (if I have any) than mine was to me.
I knew as I walked out, you'd make sure your brother and sister were safe, but I never expected you to survive your childhood.
When the teacher asked my third grade class what they wanted to be when they grew up, I stood up and replied, "Not my father."
My father smiled at me accross the Christmas dinner table and I heard quite clearly the sound of sleighbells.
When I went to my father's crippled car, a few hours after the wreck, I found both of his shoes on the floorboard surrounded by blood and covered in glass.