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moments of devastating beauty
He calls me beautiful when I remind him of home. Of days in the city and nights just outside a farm. He still calls it home, even though he’s been away longer than he ever was there. I know he wants to go back… but I don’t think he’d be able to fit in now, not with an American's perspective on life.
He calls me beautiful when I hear the lilting strains of some Irish or Scottish music. I pretend like I can Riverdance. The first time he saw me do it, I was in a skirt. He watched me, and with misty eyes, called me beautiful. He calls me beautiful when I dance. And he wonders how I ever learned to be so light on my feet when he sees me day in and day out. And Mom has to explain to him that I’ve always been light on my feet. From ballet school to now, you barely hear me if I’m running late for school. My sister, on the other hand… THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP. Every step is loud for her.
He calls me beautiful when I remind him of the Indian girls who wear dozens of silver bangles as a sign of their beauty. The jangle of bracelets when I'd move my arm reminds him of the girls he used to know. I haven’t worn them in a while… Perhaps I don’t feel beautiful enough. And, on Sundays, when I dress up, I ask him what he sees. He smiles softly and says… beautiful.
But he calls me beautiful when I make him feel at home. When I remind him of what he’s left behind. And he pulls me close and holds me tight, tears threatening in his eyes as he whispers that I’m beautiful.
He makes me feel loved when he says I’m beautiful. It’s nice to know someone thinks you are… even if it is your father.
He calls me beautiful when I remind him of home. Of days in the city and nights just outside a farm. He still calls it home, even though he’s been away longer than he ever was there. I know he wants to go back… but I don’t think he’d be able to fit in now, not with an American's perspective on life.
He calls me beautiful when I hear the lilting strains of some Irish or Scottish music. I pretend like I can Riverdance. The first time he saw me do it, I was in a skirt. He watched me, and with misty eyes, called me beautiful. He calls me beautiful when I dance. And he wonders how I ever learned to be so light on my feet when he sees me day in and day out. And Mom has to explain to him that I’ve always been light on my feet. From ballet school to now, you barely hear me if I’m running late for school. My sister, on the other hand… THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP. Every step is loud for her.
He calls me beautiful when I remind him of the Indian girls who wear dozens of silver bangles as a sign of their beauty. The jangle of bracelets when I'd move my arm reminds him of the girls he used to know. I haven’t worn them in a while… Perhaps I don’t feel beautiful enough. And, on Sundays, when I dress up, I ask him what he sees. He smiles softly and says… beautiful.
But he calls me beautiful when I make him feel at home. When I remind him of what he’s left behind. And he pulls me close and holds me tight, tears threatening in his eyes as he whispers that I’m beautiful.
He makes me feel loved when he says I’m beautiful. It’s nice to know someone thinks you are… even if it is your father.
