Hate

I have a four-leaf clover in my pocket. Her little secret makes her smile. She found it this morning, as she stopped to sit under her favorite tree. She was on her way to meet her father, and she had thought she was the unluckiest person in the world.

She realizes that this is a strange thought for a little girl to have. But she shrugs against how other people might view this little block of immovable opinion sitting in her head. Anybody else would be glad to wake up in the morning with the prospect of spending the whole day having their hands enlcosed in their father's, being led around town and being bought balloons and ice cream, tickets to the ferris wheel and the roller coaster, and a favorite yellow dress that she thought would go well with her new, shiny red shoes topped with silky ribbons.

She supposes that this should be generally true. In everyone else's lives. Everyone else's, that is, except hers.

Abandoned. This word has always loomed larger than life for her and her mother. Ever-present at the back of their tongues, ready to be spit out whenever anyone would commit the grave mistake of mentioning the name of her father.

For them "father" and "husband" were concepts that were unnecessary in their lives. Sure, these words were defined very clearly in the heavy, fat Webster's dictionary sitting on the lowest shelf of their case of books, their mini-library. But for them this was a mistake, superfluous entries in that otherwise reliable reference book of words.

The pain was more real. And it burned most substantially on that day long ago when she arrived home to a scene of utter brokenness. Broken pottery, broken tapestries, broken china, broken lamp, broken heart.... broken mother....

...Broken Family. She spelled that in capital letters in her head. It was the name she gave for her sorrow. Hers and her mother's. And she knew you always wrote proper names with big first letters.

This sorrow replaced her father in their lives. And ever since they've always been scampering to kick it out of their door, with whatever baggage it had come with that had only served to weigh down on their hearts. But they had never been successful.

He had called suddenly. Out of nowhere. Out of thin air. It almost choked her to hear it. His voice. Torn so suddenly from their lives. And now plaintive with the professed desire to somehow supplant "father" and "husband" back into their consciousness again.

She had felt her eyes burn. And she imagined them red-rimmed and boiling. She was angry. Fuming. Hateful. Churning. She had wanted to shout at him. To lash out. To pound on him with her words. To rail against him with her fists.

That's right. Why not? She would agree to meet him. Pretend to be her daughter. Ready to forgive. Because they were family.

And when they were there, face-to-face, father and daughter... she would hurt him. Scald him. Pin him under layers of guilt and years of hatred. She would use his hopes, his illusions that their blood bound them tightly together, to twist the pain more tightly around his heart.

Oh yes.. she was excited to see her father. But not for the same reasons other little girls cherished in their hearts.

She stroked the four-leaf clover she had hidden in her pocket. And she walked toward the first lucky day she'd had in a long, long while.