21 Letters – #4 For Darryl
When I was small,
I made you larger than life.
Your footsteps were thunder,
your laughter, rare as it was,
lit my chest like fireworks.
I waited at windows,
pressed my breath into glass,
believing cars slowing down
were chariots delivering you
back to me.
You were a hero I stitched together
out of scraps:
a smile once,
a promise whispered,
the shadow of your hand against mine.
I told myself I was a daddy’s girl,
that you loved me enough to stay,
that lateness was mystery,
absence an adventure,
that someday you’d arrive
with the sun in your arms.
But waiting is a heavy game.
The glass fogged.
The clock ticked.
I learned to swallow
the taste of excuses.
Your thunder was silence,
your laughter—hollow.
The promises you dropped
shattered at my feet
like brittle toys
that could never be repaired.
As I grew taller,
the pedestal you stood on crumbled.
The man I thought was gold
was rust.
The love I believed was mine
was smoke.
You were not a hero,
not a father,
just a ghost dressed in skin,
a mirage that kept me thirsty
for water that never came.
As the hurt settled in,
love felt like a language
I was never fully taught.
Every hand that reached for me
was measured against the one
that should have steadied me first.
I hesitated,
flinched at devotion,
because if the first man meant to guard my heart
could not even show up,
how could I trust that anyone else would stay?
And quickly I realized:
I should not have idolized you.
You did not earn that crown.
The little girl’s wonder was stolen
by the man who never arrived.
There is no “daddy’s girl” here,
only a woman who sees
that the emptiness you left
was never hers to carry.
I write this not to reach you,
but to set her free.