We cannot.

   I should violently quash all romantic attempts made by my Deputy Jared. I should make it clear that I am a damaged good, if you will, a package not worth delivering. I will hurt you in the end; you will be damaged beyond reason. Your firm worldview will be shattered, my darling Deputy, and you will get lost in the resulting chasm.

   Yet somehow I cannot quit you; the promise of your lithely muscular body, warm hazel eyes, and tinkling laugh are almost too much.  That is all of course, so I keep telling myself. It is not your stable presence, your straight path and good-natured yet stubborn qualities. You could be so much for me; the hand that holds the string to my kite, the sandbar that keeps my waves in check. Oh dear, I am getting sentimental, but how can a girl not, when you treat me like such a lady? Sometimes, in the world of feminists and urbanites, I feel as though chivalry is not just dead, it has been stamped to the ground by a thousand stilettoed feet just waiting for an excuse to yell at a man holding the door open. And yet, here you are, romancing me in a way I thought was for the books.

   You took me out for “lobstah,” as you say, straight from these shores, a look of pride on your face as you speak of it. Your father is a fisherman who stocks half of the restaurants, and boy would he love to meet me. Jared, you may just kill me with those words. I am not to be taken home to parents; your father would laugh at my awkward mutterings, my blushes and stuttering when he asks what I do for a living, where I am going. Darling, I have already seen my future, and saw it disappear. I am nothing, and you will come with me into this darkness if you stick around.

Sunset

Sunset, a photo by samsigelakisminski on Flickr.

Gone Fishin'

Gone Fishin', a photo by samsigelakisminski on Flickr.

A little boy told me

We put the animal heads

on the wall so we can

pet their fur

whenever we want.

I am four but they tell me

I am going on eleven.

I don’t want to grow old so fast.

I want to feel six and eight, too.

Blueberries are good

because they have

antioxidants.

Blue is my favorite color.

I would never growl at you, Auntie.

I only roar

like a truck engine.

You see I am still around.

I don’t want to go home, Auntie,

please don’t make me.

Home is carrot sticks

but you are Cheez-Its.

I don’t like being human. Can I be a puppy?

Roscoe gets to eat whatever he wants

and he’s allowed

to sleep on mommy’s bed.

I am four, Auntie.

Is four happy?

I want to be happy. I declare

all fours are happy now.

Jack to his daughter

My Dearest G,

     Your mother tells me you have found a potential someone. A young man, I gather, though you know how your mother is about “labels.” Personally, I cannot see you with a woman anyway; they would slow you down with the gentle dispositions you were never afflicted with.

Oh my dove, how you used to scoff at your mother’s and my monogamy.

     “That is no way to live,” you would declare. “There is no one person I could love more than I love living. How many loves are lost because of unnecessary monogamy.”

     I supposed this would have been an awkward conversation for most fathers with their teenage daughters, but for us it was purely spirited debate. It’s not like your mother had the temperament to speak of carnal things with you. She is so free, a flighty little leaf in the wind. 

     I asked her to talk with you and she told me, “Oh mon amour, mon beau, love comes and goes. What we have is special; let Genevieve explore. La corps veut ce que la corps veut, just like the heart. No words can stop that. Mayhap she will find a love as ours, but until then, let her live the way you know she will. She is your daughter after all.” There you have it, my dove: your mother would have you be a whore. But I jest of course, she was right.

     However, I hope you find someone who can give you more love than even your passionate heart can hold, my little imp. You will understand then.

With all my heart,

J, Dad.

Our new friend

Our new friend, a photo by samsigelakisminski on Flickr.

Thoughts of a Father

I always marvel

at how delicate your hands are

when they hold mine,

practically avian.

You look up at me

comma-like lashes, sandy colored.

One day, they will charm

today they are just endearing.

Those hands are stronger

than they first seem.

They clench more like talons, yet

I am still afraid to squeeze.

The hero worship in your eyes

scares me more than war ever did.

I will fight battles unknown with you

one day, not today.

Today we walk in the park

you coo in newly learned French,

your mother’s language.

Your hands would have matched hers.