Waiting

It's a game. I pretend. Pretend like he's gone on a long vacation to New Zealand or somewhere beautiful and far away. Someplace at sea, where there is no phone or internet connection or post office.

I pretend like he's put me in charge until he returns. Like he's handed me his keys, his passwords, his bank accounts, his home, his bed, his office, his joy, his pain, his sorrows, his worries, his court cases, his companies, his responsibilities.

I pretend like he were smiling at me when he gave them.

I pretend like he wants to see me take care of his materials, while he lives like a king, doing exactly what he's always loved and wanted to do. Be at sea.

I pretend like I'm his manager. His manager, his lawyer, his accountant. I love him.

I pretend like he's coming back, and when he does, I want him to be proud of me. I wish I could make him feel proud of me. I can't make it without him.

I wait. I sit at that same spot that I used to as a child. On a chair at the long end of the dining table, and I wait.

Watching the front door, looking through the big window beside it, waiting for the sound of his car, honking for the gate to be opened, the sound of him banging his feet outside the front door to remove the excess muck stuck to his shoes.

Daddy come home.