ten.

My Daddy died when I was 9. It left a hole in my chest that has never been filled.

Dope never mended the gaping wound that his death left. Dope was like a booby trap. It covered up the hole with a blanket, almost like it wasn't there. But if you were to tread, even lightly, where the blanket lay you would fall into its abyss.

I loved Daddy. I was his first child, his first girl, his Pooh Tyke. He literally was the perfect father. My family was something out of a fairy tale. Daddy would come home from work around 5, kiss my mother, kiss my brothers and I, and go change out of his suit and tie. He'd come downstairs in his promo t-shirt from work, khaki shorts and belt, deck shoes, and an OSU hat. He was a dedicated fan of Ohio State. We'd all eat dinner, sit around and talk, he'd help us with his homework. Then, while my mom cleaned up from dinner, my brothers, Daddy and I would all sit in the living room and watch The Brady Bunch or Kenan and Kel. He'd put us to bed, tuck us in, kiss us goodnight, and always say that he loved us.

He never yelled, never spanked. He punished us by sending us to our rooms. When he'd come up to see if we were still upset he'd tell us he wasn't mad, just disappointed. To this day someone being disappointed in me hurts more than anything else. No amount of yelling or swearing or being put down can hurt me like the words, "You've just disappointed me."

When I was 9 we moved to the capital, from an equally large city in the southern West corner of the state. Most of our family lived here and Daddy had just accepted a position created just for him at the company he'd been working for since I was born. My mother was pregnant with my youngest sibling, my baby sister, Christine. We bought a house my parents weren't happy with simply because we needed a home and it was close to his work. My brother Jon was 8 and my brother Griffin, aptly named for the former Ohio State football player Archie Griffin, was turning 2. Daddy was only 40, and my mom was 39.

On April 24, the day after Easter, we'd been living in our new home just short of five months. I woke up around 8 and thought it odd that Daddy's alarm was still going off. Usually he got up around six, but I figured he must have been in the shower and couldn't hear it beeping. I went down to the kitchen to eat breakfast, where Mom was feeding Griffin in the high chair. I hadn't been at the table more than five minutes when Jon came down from his room. I always remember the words he spoke next. He was slender, with a sweet round face. His eyes match mine in every way except the color; large, round doe eyes, the longest soft lashes, always shiny. While my eyes are dark brown, almost black if you don't look closely, his are hazel. His hair was a warm shade of brown, and his bowl cut grazed just below his eyebrows. Still in his pajamas, he strode lazily into the entryway of the kitchen from the hallway that lead to the front door and stairs and said, "Hey, Mom?" He paused while she looked up from Griffin. "Daddy's laying in bed. He's face down and he's blue."

I remember racing up the stares after my very pregnant mother. I remember grabbing Daddy's left arm, and shaking it. He felt so heavy. His back looked like it always did, his skin extremely fair, but I could see that his entire front side was purple and blue, like a bruise. His body was still warm as he lay there, no covers, in only his white Hanes. I remember Griffin standing in the doorway to my parents room, wailing one of the only words that he pronounced correctly, "Daddy," at the top of his lungs, heavy tears rolling from his blue moon eyes. My mother screaming hysterically my father's name. Keith.

A month later, on May 15, Christine was born.


I am my father's daughter. I do know that one day I'd like to get married. I don't know that I want to change my last name. I heavily resemble my mother's side of the family. Thin, fairly light, big dark eyes, thick dark hair. If I didn't color mine constantly my hair would be the same shade of brown as my mothers, like the eyes we share, almost black. All I have of my father is his last name and his blood. I have tainted both. When people would hear the name he gave me they would shake their heads. "She had such potential. She got into CCAD and just threw it away. It's sad." I'm working on changing that.

What hurts most is that I share his blood. The same blood that coursed through his veins, that pumped in and out, in and out of the heart that killed him, that made him who he was, is the same blood that I intoxicated. The veins he gave me became as hard as my exterior. The blood that runs through them was no good to me unless it was filled with dope. I pricked my skin, punctured my veins, but injected dope straight into his blood. I am disgusted with my disrespect.


I work every day, harder and harder, towards my sobriety. I want people to love me just as much as they loved Daddy. I want people to know I am Keith's daughter, and that I am something to be proud of.