Eulogy For Father

Located in a forest, was a park my dad had taken me to for a space of around two years. In the summer it was lush and virescent, the full trees bringing shade and fabricating new mountains to scale. The winter was beautifully barren and had seemed to be as clear as crystalline ice, reflecting the beauty around every surface. All year the park was feigning beauty and then mocking the word in which it was described. It held everything that could possibly make a child happy, including the beaming, champagne colored ice cream truck. Even the champagne was pretending to be beautiful; the color peeled off in feathers of paint as if the truck was pluming for everyone’s entertainment. My father got me an ice cream every time we went, which more or

less, was every weekend. It gave me so much ardor and joy that it felt as if when I was born a small seedling of fervent happiness was planted in the deeps of my spirit and each time I got ice cream, it sprouted in my soul and flowered from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. Ice cream was my only source of happiness when I went to his house on the weekend.
The sugary sweetness slowly cascades down the chocolate, oval sized mound running down the cookie dough pieces and onto my hand.

Like a thirsty dog, I quickly lap up the driblets, making sure to not allow any of the candied perfection to go to waste. The drug, now being inside my body, made me happier than, possibly my flower garden, or even Disneyland. At the time, I thought the happiness was from my dad. I mean, it should be from my dad; a parental figure should make you happy, right? At least that is what I thought then, now I know; parental figures do not give you happiness, you make that for yourself. The reality of this however, does not stop the wants nor the memories from coming

through.
There are nights when I struggle to sleep, drowning in the thoughts conjured by his face and the memories playing beneath my eyelids like a drama film. Sometimes, the movie lasts for hours, other times, it lasts for days; going from memory-to-memory, thought-to-thought. No matter the movie, the scene, the length, it’s always him I see; whether it’s subtly hinted or slammed into my face like a cinder-block wall I just happened to run into. If you think about it, it makes sense— he is supposed to be in my life. Mentally he is definitely with me, but physically he’s gone. It’s like the sun and a plaintive tree: the tree needs the sun, it can’t live without it. You’re my father, my sun, you should be in my life.
After fifteen years, he finally wanted a relationship; you were fifteen years too late.

My father had gone to court, brawling the justice system for more time with me, because apparently first, third, and fifth weekends weren’t enough. My mom had fought regardless of the cost to keep me from the innocence-hunting beast like the valiant knight I knew her to be when I was small. She had almost won with the court taking the fifth weekend visitations away, however they had decided we could be a good family therefore sending both me and my father to reunification therapy. In other words, trying to rebuild the broken bond, but as Dr. Roberts (my therapist) said, “Reunification therapy only works if both parties are

cooperative.”
The first time I went, I was terrified to be in the same room as my dad; hearing his harsh words and having to stare into the eyes that hold nothing but a satanic atmosphere of ice. His eyes reflected his soul, cold and hellish—nothing like the man I knew when I was little. Over the years, he grew careless with his words and with his actions. He said and did things to me I can’t think about without tearing up, without wishing I could go back and save that poor, innocent, little girl I once knew.