Dear Daddy

Dear Daddy,
Sometimes when I sit at my kitchen table in silence, a cup of tea in front of me, I envision you sitting right opposite me. See, during moments like these, you never died four years ago. Instead, you battled your depression, reclaimed your health and decided to come visit me here in Denmark to see your grandson.
He looks like you. It's something about his eyebrows and the slight buck-toothed laugh that remind me of you when you used to call me "sweetey girl". He's got your fight too--and it's a challenge when he gets mad. Once he took my clothes and was about to throw them out the window! Yes Daddy, Kai reminds me of you.
I remember those days when I'd come visit you. It was when I was in college and I'd come by after a night of partying and we'd hang out, listen to Roy Ayers and I'd take a nap on your bed. You had a big ass tv and still liked to watch your gameshows. You wore worn denims and canvas sneakers. You were still vain about your hair--the perfect afro crowning your round face. You quit smoking and when I smoked my cigarettes, you'd tell me about the time when I was a child and say to you, "When I grow up, I'm going to smoke!" That should have told you how much I looked up to you, I was willing to risk my life to be anything close to you.
I always admired you. Your discipline, the fact that you taught yourself how to play the guitar then the organ. I loved your style--saga boy we say in Trinidad, you know, embracing the flambouyant, the colorful cause life is too short to dress plain. What I loved the most were your hands: Your slender fingers and to this day it is always the first thing I look at when I meet people, always searching to find a pair as beautiful as yours. Once I did, and so fell in love hard. But as you know, that didn't work out and I guess that's how I ended up in Denmark. But we can always talk about that another time.
I listen to Jackie Mittoo a lot because his music reminds me of you. I particularly enjoy Oboe: And I'm convinced there is a more commercial version but as yet can not find it. I know you would know the answer to this. I also have that Chico Hamilton album, well in fact, I've got many albums from you. I remember when I was a kid flipping through your extensive record collection: Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, Black Stalin,The Four Seasons, Nat King Cole, a multitude of Broadway soundtracks. I was introduced to the soundtracks to West Side Story, Jesus Christ Superstar, My Fair Lady many many years before I actually even knew what each story was about. Instead, I made up my own stories, as I lay on that green carpet, staring up at the ceiling, singing along with Maria and knowing instinctively what she meant when she sung, "I Feel Pretty."
I remember when you used to pick me up from the Bus Stop and take me to Prospect Park. I'd sit in those little aluminum swings and you'd push me and my stomach tickled and I laughed...you laughed, our breaths coming together in that moment of time, only to dissipate into the thin air.
The funny thing about death is...well, it's like you are still here, but I just can't find you and I know I never will. But then again Daddy, I don't know about that cause there is something in the way Kai furrows his brow or in the way he teases me or even
in his small hands that beckons your spirit back.
I'll write you again. Know that I am well and finally feel as though I am at peace.
Your Loving Daughter,
Lesley-Ann