Daddy's Home

My dark tower, so strong and stoic in your white suit made milky from the constant stream of sweat salted with your anger, determination, and pride. Stains of the latest rage added to your uniformed rainbow. I wondered what color you would end up? Like the smell of kerosene, I followed you through the kitchen, into the bathroom. There I stood, holding up the door frame, submerged in the sound of water and the quick fragrance of dollar-store soap, watching your every move, my Daddy, the apple of my eye. You turned the cleansing bar in your hand with no effort; dropped it back into its porcelain place. Back and forth, your hands made more and more bubbles. Over and over, you turned them under the faucet, as if the water would rinse away more than the day’s work. Your graying hair was dusted with their chips of paint. Someone else’s disregarded memories brought into our home to be swept away by the one who smiled and made everything better with a good supper. Don’t sigh Daddy. One day we’ll repaint our home, make it brighter, newer, better and someone else will sweep our memories from their floor.