One Teardrop

I often wonder how one person could live each day desiring absolute control over the people he claimed to love the most--how that love could drive him to instill a fear so deep that his raised voice would cause uncontrollable trembling and on several occasions, even loss of bladder control.

I've heard some say it was the war--it made him mean. Others have defended him by saying he was spoiled as youngster--he was the baby and his momma let him do whatever he wanted without punishment. I had always associated his complete loss of self-control with the death of his momma, my granny, when I was 12. It wasn't too long after her death that he selfishly made a decision that altered the course of my life forever. However, I've learned recently that he molested several of his nieces--my cousins many years before then, years before his momma had died. Of course, no one admitted that until he had died. I was in exile for 17 years and no one in my extended family was brave enough to defy him.

With his death, a life of fear ended. As the fear faded and the protective barriers began to fall, the little girl who loved her daddy began to mourn. I cried when my mother spoke of the last moments they shared together before he fell into the coma that led to his death. She spoke of watching silent tears flow down his cheeks--he couldn't speak. My heart broke when I heard that. I sobbed for his pain and suffering, this man I had sworn I didn't care about. I wondered if maybe, just maybe one of those teardrops was for me.

I'm trying to be supportive and strong for my mother and two brothers; they still struggle with his loss every day. I don't need to hear apologies and will deal with their sometimes misdirected anger and hurt. I'm so completely grateful to have my family back that nothing else matters to me. And, in spite of everything, I loved my dad. I don't know why admitting my love for him makes me feel better, but for some reason it just does.