This is such an adolescent complaint: hating the father because. There is no other quantifier afterwards, like standing at the edge of the cliff and looking below forever, nothing, the black hole of dreamless sleep. Memory: I am standing at the line between the sidewalk and the street, in my yellow dress, no more than five. He is walking away. I remember the blue of his back, the blue of the sky. I never wanted him to leave me alone.
Now, older, I pretend that I do not hear him when he calls me selfish, self-centered, the first point of reference in my own map of the stars. It is easier to shut the door, clamp on headphones, drown in sound and color. Sometimes, I look up and wonder when I can simply go away, disappear, become one with the universe. I refuse to look behind me, to step into his shadow, looming. Sometimes we never forgive those who leave us.