Talk to me

I wish Daddy would ask me how my classes are. I wish he would ask me what I enjoy the most, what I enjoy the least. I wish we would sit on the couch and talk. I wish we would talk.
He drives and I watch the road. I tell him something about school and he nods, watching the road, tightly holding on to the wheel. I do not know where to take the conversation, how to end it, how to move on to something new. So I stop; he has not said a word. I have known this man for 18 years and yet here I am, unable to speak, unable to find words. We are strangers who love each other, who watch out for each other, who read each other’s eyes. He loves me as I am his baby girl, and holds my hands, and smiles at my silliness, laughs at my childishness. Would I be asking for too much if I wanted him to talk to me, to advise me, to scold me? Would I be selfish if I wanted him to take me out for ice-cream, for a stroll in the park? Daddy’s words are silent. I have learned to accept his silence as his approval and disapproval, his hello and goodbye. I have learned, like any good little girl. But I still wonder sometimes. I wonder when Daddy and I will talk.

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