It wasn’t his fault.  Not really.  I love him.  I truly do.  Don’t all daughters love their fathers? But, I also hate him.  Hate him so much that I hope the fires of hell melt his flesh from his bones, little by little, taking at least a million years.

                But, oh how I love him.  I hate the anguish he is in.  Day after day, I watch his chest sink and heave out laboriously for just one more breath of air.  I pray for him.  I pray he would cry out in his pain for forgiveness for his wretched sin.  He calls God his Father.  Don’t fathers forgive their children? Then he could die and go to heaven.  Then, the stench of his fetid breath would also die, and his yellow, crusty eyes would disappear behind his wrinkled, gray lids.  Then, he wouldn’t stare at me anymore.  Accusing me.  For what? I had done nothing.  But, he thinks I know.  He thinks I have something on him.  I do, but I would never say it.  That would scar me.  And weaken me.

                Why did God let him do those things to me?  Does God not realize?  Realize what you ask. Oh, why do I have to explain everything? But, because I am a reasonable person, I will tell you.  You’d think God could see that to children their parents are images of what God must be like.  I figured that out, but I guess God couldn’t or He wouldn’t let bad people be parents. See how smart I am.  I think about things all the time.  All the time!  My thinking has made me smarter than others. Oh, yes, I get angry. But, my anger has only made my thoughts clearer, my understanding sharper.

                Do you know I was the only one who stayed when everyone else left?  I hated him for that.  The old coot was so mean, and he would laugh about it.  He drove them all away.  So, like him, I had no one.  Well, I had him, but that was the same thing as having no one.  Humph, now that I think about it, I’ve never had anyone.  Not even God. I wasn’t God’s child.  He was.

                Yet, I love him for his loneliness.  He blames me for all of them leaving.  But I stayed!  Didn’t that show that I love him?  Didn’t that give me some kind of worth to God?  I stayed with His depraved son when everyone else abandoned him.

                Besides that, I had to stay.  She hates me.  She didn’t want to hate me, but she did, and I don’t blame her.  He forced me to take her place.  She wouldn’t admit she hates me.  She told me he would need me when his sickness got worse.  And she was right.  So, she took the three little ones and left.  I hate her for that. I hate the three little ones because she chose them over me. 

        On the day she left, she told me to trust God.  On the outside, I smiled and said, “yes ma’am.” On the inside she disgusted me because I knew she said those words to make herself feel better.  Not because she cared about me.  Like the old man, she’s God’s child, too.

                Have I told you how much I hate him?  I sit by his bed every day, watching. My time will come.  I will be free. I laugh when I think about being free.  Free means he is dead.  Do you doubt I know what I am saying?  My thoughts are as clear as the ringing of a bell.

I have counted them.  The top of his bald pate has six, long white hairs.  His white, scabby head has brown splotches.  Once, I saw a nest of sparrow eggs.  His head looks like one of them.  Except for the six white hairs.  His gnarled hands that used to bring so much pain are all twisted now.  Bent fingers lie over one another.  His old thumb bends outward like the curved thing doesn’t want to be near its disjointed and worthless companions.  I like that.  But, I also remember how he used those hands on me. On her. On my one brother when they were straight and powerful.  I have the power now.

I love him most when he is asleep.  He can’t stare at me then. He can’t see my thoughts on my face.  But, God can.  I don’t care.  He doesn’t care about me.  

You see, the old man suspects why I hate him.  He sees me bite my lips and pull at my eyelashes.  I can’t hide that.  He put that look on my face.  He is the reason my lips bleed when I bite too hard.  He is the reason I have no eyelashes and my eyes look bulgy.

Once he asked me, “You remember, don’t you?”  He only asked once.  I enjoyed that moment.  I wouldn’t give him an answer, but he thought he knew I did.  He just wasn’t quite sure.  I liked that.  Like those times when I heard his bare feet walk on the creaking boards.  And, I wasn’t sure if he would come into my room.  I prayed he wouldn’t, but God wasn’t listening. The old predator had the power then.  But now when he asked me, I just smiled and tucked the covers tighter around his gray throat.

If you have forgotten, I will tell you again.  I hate him.  He actually thinks that between his hacking coughs, the bad ones that have blood mixed in his spit, he can still give me orders.

“Feed the chickens.”

“Slop the hogs.”

“Gather the eggs.”

Inside I laugh. I assure him that his precious beauties are fine. Now, I gather the eggs, and I feed a few hens.  The eggs give me food.  The rest of the gamecocks lay dead wherever they dropped. His prized fighters will fight no more.  Hallelujah!  He told me one time that God made game roosters for fighting; no other reason. The pigs?  I gave them to Fred Higgins down the road.  They’re poor.  The meat will feed their seven kids.  His oldest girl looks and acts a lot like me.

Fred feels sorry for me. He says I am pretty.  His wife sends me oatmeal and milk.  That’s what I feed my patient.

I know what you are thinking.  You can’t fool me.  You think I’m crazy.  I am not.  I know where the real and the fake are.  Do you?

Now that he is almost nothing, I only have one fear.  I’m scared someone like you will come check on us and take me away from him.  Stupid people, stupid you, who live in the fake, think you know what’s good for me.  You don’t.  Where were you a year ago?  Hanging out with God, I guess. But, I won’t let you take me.  I have a plan. I will carry it out tonight.  Someone in the corner of his room said you are coming tomorrow.  You see, I have friends who tell me things.  They stay with me.  Not like you and God.

            I tell him before he goes to sleep that I love him.  I remind myself that I hate him. I choose the spot on the floor where to put his old overalls, shirts, socks, and handkerchiefs.  I won’t touch his underwear.  I put his Bible on top of his clothes.  I always wondered why he owned that book.  I pile all of it at the door to his bedroom.  I light a match to my ungodly heap.  The flames lick the Bible. Sizzle when wrapping around his clothes.  Then, I go and crawl into his sick bed beside him. I lay on my side.  I am close to his heaving chest.  He whimpers.  I close my eyes.  This is fitting, I think.  My last thoughts tell me I did the right thing, so I don’t need to ask forgiveness.  I am doomed. I have always been doomed, and God has never cared. 

What is it they say?  Like father, like son.  My earthly father and God are the same to me.