Your Kingdom Come

Your Kingdom Come

My father was my world, the one person who showed me that who I am is something of which to be proud, that I was more than just a gender because he treated me like the surprise little girl that was born and the little boy he had been expecting.  He would watch out for me and my sisters like a cock around his hens, and then crawl under the vintage Mustangs and call out wrench numbers while I eagerly passed them over to him with knowing and expertise.  I was not even six-years-old then, but I knew what he wanted and earnestly aimed to please, not so much so he could accept me, but because I wanted to love him the way he knew how to love.

Decades later, after the uprooting to Costa Rica and the bilingual private schooling and the weekends at the beach and the family outings and dramas, after the divorce that brought me back to the States and to the other family, and the Welfare visits and the poverty, after years of loneliness and sadness and teenage anger and confusion, of lies and half-truths and hurting and reconciliation, I realize that what my father taught me those early years of my life when I lived in a world where he was king, was that I was indeed his princess and his prince, that his man-cave under the hood of a car was our castle, and that in those precious moments when we spoke our own language, we were a kingdom of two, just him and me, ready to take on the dragons that surely came.