Lines Along the Pen

When I was nineteen years old, I left home. My life was in disarray, chaos, and I had to leave. I had a chance to start over, begin another life, and nothing was waiting for me here. And I had to leave.

My father silently fumed but did not utter one word to me. Instead, he drove me out to Long Island and dropped me off at my grandfather's house, where I would reside for the next couple of years. He gave me a brief hug, a lingering glance, and then he was out the door, and I watched the car pull away. And then I was left here, slowly pulling the pieces of my life back together.

"You took her away from me." I could not believe his words. "You made her leave." He hated that I was gone. "She did not have to go," my mother repeated to me, but why could he not tell me himself?

I was the only daughter out of six children. Everyone assumed that I was daddy's little girl, but that assumption was far from the truth. He would spend more time with my brothers, talking about sports and politics, but when it came to me, he pointed at my mother. But instead, I chased after my brothers, a thorn in their side.

My oldest brother loved to place the blame of his mischief on me. One day, he spilled paint all over the garage, and when my father asked him who was responsible, he would point at me. On a Thanksgiving Day, he released the parakeet from its cage, and our parents' black labrador opened its mouth and swallowed it whole, leaving a lone feather drifting across the floor. And you could guess who received the blame, but karma repaid him in kind. He hid under my bed one night, armed with a Freddy Krueger glove, and just as I slipped into bed, he attacked. But my high pitched scream brought my father to the bedroom door, and the look on my brother's face was simply priceless.

My father and I would constantly butt heads. He would say one thing, and I would do the opposite. We held more arguments instead of conversations, and neither of us could reach a compromise. Instead, my mother would play referee and choose a side.

My father did not care for the boys that I brought home. He would wait until I was gone and then speak with my mother about them in private. With my brothers, they would crack jokes, nickname those that I dated, and tease me about them. "Dave's not here" called, they would say, referring to a boy named Dave. One guy that I dated sounded like Rocky, earning him the nickname of, "Yo, Adrian." As the years went on, my father and brothers decided to stick to their favorite line, "What's wrong with this one?"

As years progressed into the high school era, I began to write. Notebook pages filled with expressions and dreams, but my father merely shook his head. He told me that my head was stuck in the clouds and that I was living in fantasy, but I clung to the pen. But as he urged me to face the real world, I finally listened, leaving the writing behind, but instead of finding myself, I became a shell of who I really am. And more years would pass before I returned to the pen.

My father now held my book of poems in his hand. Pride shined from his eyes, but he remained silent. Fingers eagerly flipped through pages, and a ghost of a smile touched his lips. And all those years of conflict between us slipped away.

I sit beside him now on the couch. We share the same sense of humor, but when it comes to sports, I still find myself lost. But we find other ways to strike up conversations, and no longer do we argue nor have my mother play referee. It took a long time to get here, but we remain side by side. And despite the rough road behind us, it was his strength and determination that flowed through my veins, held my life together, and led me to becoming the woman that I am.