By Justine C. Tajonera
My first memory
of my Dad
has to do with a nightmare
I had.
At three years old,
I woke up screaming
in the night.
A pair of strong arms
lifted me into the air,
and rocked me gently,
all around the house.
My Dad is all about bear hugs,
computations written on
table napkins and
yellow legal pad,
and a grip that's sure
and unfailing
when we hold hands
during the "Our Father,"
at mass.
I've seen him falter,
confused and hurt over
things I say
so carelessly.
I've seen him shed
tears while watching
a movie.
I remember that this world
is so much less scary
and bewildering
because he's always
had my back
since that night
I woke up
screaming.
My bedrock and my
shield,
I take his warm
hand
wherever I
go.
When I look back
there he is,
always.
(Nov. 15, 2009)
For Daddy, on his birthday
