My father is lost. He is lost in his mind. He is lost in his ways. He is lost in this world, not knowing where he is going, or where he is heading. He does not know how to live his life or how to handle his life in almost any way. Growing up he resented his mother for her wrong doings; she would him leave for extensive periods of time and then return as if nothing had happened. He swore he’d never be the monster she was. Now, as an adult, he finds himself walking in her footsteps. I think his feet lead him in the opposite direction he intends to go.

   At the age of five my dad left my mom, sister, and I for another woman and another family. It was painful for all of us but not nearly as much as the following years he spent repeatedly leaving and re-entering our lives. The periods in which he left contained few phone calls; birthdays and Christmases were all I heard from him. But each time he left, he would promise it would be different. “It won’t be as long as last time.” Yet, each time it got longer.

   I was nine when I saw my father again after a year without him. After his visit came to an end that late summer afternoon I had an emotional breakdown that I wouldn’t forget. We stood outside the door of our second floor apartment saying our goodbyes. He was crouched down on his knees holding me. My arms were wrapped around him as tightly as they could. I was crying, choking out the words, asking him why he had to leave. “It won’t be as long as last time; I promise.” When he let go of me, I saw a tear slide down his face. He pulled away and went down the stairs quickly to avoid seeing me cry- to avoid feeling all of the guilt.

   I stood at the top of the stairs engulfing the emptiness in my arms. I watched him go, but I could not see much as my vision diminished into smeared blobs of color through a waterfall of tears.

   Afterwards each time I got to see my dad, he was more surprised at who I had become than the last.

 Your writing is so good now…

 When did you learn to sew?

 You don’t sleep with a nightlight anymore?

And as the years went by, I found that he knew me less and less.

 No, dad, I don’t want a ballerina figure that holds            necklaces.

 Or a pink studded bag with jewelry inside,

 Nor the Hello Kitty guitar that you bought me and never were around to teach me to play.

And when you got me makeup, what I really wanted was the new Call of Duty game. When you thought I liked jewelry, I was more into baking.

I guess it surprised me too how little I knew you. It was a hard reality to wake up to, realizing that my dad, my hero, was actually just a man, who didn’t know what he was doing.

   I am almost eighteen now. I have not seen my dad in four years, nor heard from him in two. His pattern continues, and for all I know, I may never hear from him again. My father is lost. He is lost in his career, in his hobbies, in his new family’s struggles. But the loss that will haunt him the most is his place in our lives.