On My Own Two Feet

I would clamber onto him and cling to a woolly sweater, my arms grasping my father’s over-sized belly as I balanced precariously, my feet resting on top of his own.

Sometimes he would take me reluctantly, but I would plead with him and he would always surrender eventually. He would walk through the halls, seemingly unaware of his newly-formed extension. He felt sturdy and wholly solid between my arms. He felt undefeatable.

On occasion, he would belt out a verse of a preferred opera. Long, somber, off-tone notes would emerge from him, and I felt the sound evolve within him as I pressed my ear against his stomach. He would pat my back gently but firmly to the beat of his tune.

In those moments I felt entirely like his daughter. I loved him. Now, we have both grown up. I have changed, and my father has also. He has lost his epic grandeur that once seemed so singular. He doesn’t sing any longer, he hasn’t for years.

I don’t grasp him now. I don’t hold him silently, I don’t focus my attention on him, I don’t try to imitate him, like I used to. And he doesn’t give me rides on his feet. I am too big for him, or perhaps he has gotten smaller. I must make it on my own.