I am five and use my father as a cubby on the couch.
He reads aloud about wars between good and evil,
sounding out onomatopoeia and
his inner child excitedly explains the lore behind men in capes and masks.

I am seven and trying to pedal a bike with training wheels.
My father pushes me so I gain momentum.
Even when I get the hang of gravity, I white-knuckle the bars—
afraid of the animalistic asphalt ready to bite, but
my father is the type to use his shirt to bandage bloody knees. 

I am ten and in the dark of a theater.
My father whispers in my ear what scenes are true to the comics and 
becomes a wannabe Rotten-Tomatoes-worthy movie critique when the scenes fail to replicate their written counterpart.
Afterwards, we rave about our favorite parts, but 
my mother does not speak.

I am thirteen and my mother jumps out of a moving car,
screaming at my father to shoot her already.
I beg them to stop and strike him before running to my grandmothers house.
She comes and gives us all a timeout. 

I am sixteen and back my fathers car into a tree.
A dent appears like a gaping wound.
He says nothing except, "Switch seats."
Silence suits us. 

I am eighteen and sneaking off to my boyfriends house.
When I arrive, I slide my car into his car, and profusely apologize, but my high eyes tell on me.
The chaos is interrupted by my father as he texts me.
He is leaving my mother.
I try to remember our last meal as a family, but
the memory left the door before he did. 

I am twenty-one and my father texts me on birthdays and holidays.
His name glowing on my screen makes my stomach twist as
he causes me a severe case of conflict. 
I do not agree with his actions, but 
I am my fathers shadow.

I am twenty-two and my father tells me that
everything bad that has happened to me is my fault. 
I respond that he is dead to me, and
I begin the process of befriending grief by
mourning the fact that my father will not walk me down the aisle. 
I wonder how long it will take for my father to
remove the ink stain of me in his arm.

I am twenty-five and often forget 
I have three half-siblings that I do not know.
In photos my grandmother posts on Facebook,
I cannot help but notice how there are no photos of me in their home. 
When my father dies, 
I will be forced to find solace that 
his silence is no longer voluntary.

Featured art: Unknown