Once, I was your girl.

When you held your first born, 43 years ago, in the crook of your freckled arm and looked down at me with those loving eyes that I still long for today,

I was your girl.

When I ran the plastic bases after you pitched me whiffle balls in the back yard of my childhood home in which you still live,

then, I was your girl.

All the times you lapped our driveway, trying desperately to keep up with the swift 16-inch whitewall tires of my Schwinn, while holding a firm grasp on my pink banana bicycle seat to ensure that I was safe,

I was your girl.

The screen opened summer evenings, in which we danced with joy to Frankie Valli and and the 4 Seasons on your reel-to-reel stereo in our rec room, and again two decades later at my wedding reception,

I was still your girl.

Then, one day I wasn’t. It didn’t happen overnight, but was rather a long, slow process filled with anger, guilt, sadness, and grief. I can’t speak for you, but I have regrets and imagine that you must, too. Each spring, as the day of your birth comes and goes, it seems less likely that we will every reach a resolution.  

Soon comes seven years since I’ve last heard the sound of your voice. I’ve tried every idea I can think of to make amends. It is time to make peace with that fact that I am no longer your girl.  I am only in control of my own actions. To that end, I want to conclude this letter with the words that should have been my last ones to you seven long years ago. 

“I love you, Dad.”