13 March, 2011


This blog is so much harder to write than I thought it would be. I thought I dealt quite well with my father's life until I started this blog.

Tears are streaming down my face right now as my little girl memories come flooding back to me.

The most painful memories for me surround Christmas. The memories aren't painful because I missed Christmas with my father, but they are painful because of something my father did to try to ease the holiday season for us. Every year he would write in a letter, "Maybe you'll find me under the tree on Christmas morning."

Every year, I told my mother what he had written, and every year she said, "Your father is NOT going to be here Christmas morning."

It didn't matter what she said. Every Christmas morning I ran to the tree and expected to find him there. All I ever found was hundreds of dollars worth of perfectly wrapped presents from Santa. Why was Santa so cruel?

I also remember a little girl playing in the yard looking at airplanes up in the sky and thinking that they were bringing my daddy home. I even waved to my daddy on the planes and yelled to the sky how much I loved him. I knew better, but little girls need to pretend.

My heart breaks when I think of a little girl that hated the FBI. We grew up knowing that our phones were bugged. More times than I'll ever admit, I picked up the phone, heard the dial tone, and told the interloping FBI how much I hated them for taking my daddy away from me. Didn't they know how much I wanted him home?

And I won't even get started on how many times the little girl stared at the sky praying to see a shooting star.