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For My Father

by Noemi Szadeczky-Kardoss

Dad!

For the first time in my life, I don’t know which way to go.

When I was little, it was easy. I just had to follow the arrows, and they lead me to you. You drew them on the sidewalks with white chalk so that I would find my way from the playground to your workplace. Do you remember? You used to let me play as long as I wanted, but you never stayed with me. The work couldn’t wait, you used to say. But before you left, you always made sure the arrows were still visible on the sidewalks. If the rain had washed them away, you drew them again.

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A Daughter's Love is a Terrible Thing to Waste

by Malaika Booker-Wright

I have half of this man’s genes. His blood runs through my veins. I have his nose. I have his lips. I have his hair. I have his “worry lines.” Yet, I only have a handful of memories involving him.

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Childhood Never Changes on the Beach

by Nancy McDaniel

For some reason, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about my father lately. My dad and I were very close. I was an only child and my mom died when I was 16, so Daddy and I spent a lot of time together. He died about 12 years ago. I don’t think about him every day, but I’ve thought of him a lot lately.

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Beach Philosopher

by Nancy McDaniel

When I walk down the streets of Chicago by myself, it never enters my mind to wonder about the things I see. Why, for example, are people standing on the corner? That’s easy; they are waiting for a bus. Why are those people frowning? Simple, because they’re unhappy or stressed. When I walk along the beach in Florida, all sorts of questions, most without answers, go through my mind. Is it because I revert back to a childhood full of beach walks? Or am I just bored with too much time on my hands? Either way, on the beach, I become a philosopher of sorts.

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My Dad

by Nancy McDaniel

I’ll bet I wrote something with that title when I was a little girl. And I’ll bet it would have been pretty similar to what I’d like to say today about Daddy, or Johnny Mac, as you may have called him. Except now I think I have a few more insights about, though no less love for, this man, whom many of you called your friend. I also called him my friend. One of my favorite Father’s Day gifts to him was a plaque that said, “Happiness is having a father as a best friend.”

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For My Father

by Steve Gaines

captured in the bronze of time
my father’s memory shines
hangs prominently on the granite wall
of my own mortality.

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