My Fivehead Man

The light was the kind of bright that makes your eyes slightly damp around the edges. Moonlight bright in the newfound early darkness. It was full.

My eyes muster up the courage to face the brightness and gaze into the gleaming circle in the sky. I can hear your sing-song call…

The bella luna.

Almost instantaneously U2’s “With Or Without You” inhabits my brain, my ear, as if Bono, eyes gazing into the moon behind his yellow-tinted lenses, is singing right next to me.

I can hear the CD catalog of U2 and Peter Gabriel. I am sitting in the too big passenger seat of your black GMC Jimmy in a pink leotard and soft, leather ballet slippers. The toes are just slightly scuffed. This is our time. Just you and me, on the way to the YMCA. I am your princess.

My castle is the American Girl Doll Store every year on my birthday. My carriage takes me to the ball, the one that the Bulls are playing. We yell for Cuppy Coffee to beat stupid Biggie Bagel on the screen because I would rather you get a free coffee than me getting a bagel. I know better.

Four daddy-daughter dances later and I still don’t think your recycled jokes are funny. I roll my eyes, but I still grin. We bash the weird, annoying dads in your Acura TL while XRT plays in the background.

You suck

The air out of my lungs as the visceral words hit your face. My middle name gets some unfortunate air time as I lose your respect temporarily. We fume like two matching steam stacks.

Two peas in a pod. We butt foreheads, though he refers to his as a ‘Fivehead’ because it is just a tad bigger. Our secret handshake of sorts, in all its stubborn glory, also shown in whiteboard notes proclaiming dollar prizes for the MU vs. Illini Border War Basketball game.

Sometimes I think that we are more alike then I would like. But, I guess I am just truly a Daddy’s Girl. I will let you be right about that.