To my beautiful searcher,
My darling, I know that he was your king. He stood, and all those monsters under your bed went away. I remember once, waking up mid-scream, the only name on my lips was Dad. Ran, bared-feet to his arms to complain, that these demons don’t go away. He came, like a king, making decrees and prayed into that space, spoke peace within my being, and I knew in that moment, that this is what a man should be.
I understand what it feels to desire to be more for man. To compare yourself to cousins and friends and things and think that he deserves a better you. A better daughter. One who would play his games. I didn’t have enough boy in me. I understand fierce jealousy and bitter meetings with half-siblings because they got part of him that I didn’t. They got his time and I got…
Studies show that the interaction in early years seeps into eternity. I guess that’s why my heart still feels lack. I wanted more hugs. More of his gaze. I needed him to hold my face and be proud. I understand my precious daughters what it feels like, to have longing pain a hole into your soul. I have often loved the man I didn’t see. This mimics my interactions with lovers now. I clung to a fantasy with hope, that one day, this would change. The grey skies would know their place and we would exist. A father and a daughter holding hands. I knew he loved me but his absence often caused me to forget.
When he stayed, that hurt too. I had to now learn the ways of a man that society expected me to already know. So I watched. Took notes. But I didn’t like everything that was revealed. I once asked him, why I wasn’t enough. Why he placed the arms of a lover before me. He responded that his happiness was important. Wasn’t mine too? I looked everywhere for this king I seemed to have imagined in my dreams. I found a split personality that would hold me one day and strike me the next. This man that made me fear sleep and then tell me to dream. I often wonder why humans change. Why temperament alters their gene. I desired to look up to him, but he kept changing his face.
This is not to say, that all times were bad. He was a good one. I have learnt that not every fruit on a tree will be good. Some have been pricked by pesky birds. And some are shaken by the songs of the wind and fall, being shattered to its core. But neither circumstance dictates the fact that they once were sweet. They once were what we call good fruit. I thank him, for the fruits that he gave. Not all good. But all great. All teaching me, something about the vices of man. About their struggle with virtue. About the poetic idea that love is indeed tried and true. That it doesn’t perform in the best of ways. And these idealizations of a man laying down his life, doesn’t take place every day.
So love them, for what they are, and what they have given to this earth. Even if all they gave you was sperm.
This letter is an excerpt from Katrina’s first book, Letters to The Broken, Healing & Healed