Daddy’s Declamation

I was ten when I met the little angel that branded my own. Her name was Mayzee, John Candy’s niece, Macaulay Culkin’s sister. I told myself: that’s what I’ll name my first little angel—a name of sympathy, a name so perfect it smiles like the Cheshire; I was twenty-two when I crowned my second queen; I found her in the southern Wind, despite it being Gone, and her name is Scarlett like the color of the rose she carries: another symbol of who I live for.
Am I a good daddy? I want to be, and I’ve been told that I am, and I’ve been told I am not, and I’ve been told there’s no chance in hell I’ll ever rekindle the bond, a proven lie, I beat the dead out of the dad with the blood in my heart, not in my veins.
It doesn’t matter what I’ve done, or where I’ve been, because anywhere I go or anyplace I dream, my two angels breathe the same air; they’re all I think of every day. But while the mothers are “hated” daddy only get the goods. I don’t want to be a mickey mouse martyr. But who or what is a man without a daughter?
Who is a daughter without her daddy? I know the answer: partial, incomplete, hopeless of contentment. I’d do anything to bring back the southern Wind:
I’d dig up the bones of John Candy just to have one simple holiday, not a fictitious side of heaven with barrels of spoiled sugar. I withdrew the spike, drank the pink repellent, and then spit it out with pride and I haven’t watered the garden of green plants of docility in months. So some may say that I’m human again, others, like me, only laugh at the idea, a sham philosophy, indeed. Even if that powerful Penguin kicked down my door and threw pictures of dead presidents at me, or if the gods overthrew a castle on the finest land, the devil’s gift, a torrent of fame and fortune, would be a goddamn curse no doubt;  
I’d rather paint the wind a beautiful red, wash my face with the Rae of a white-gold stream. I can’t quite explain the sentiment I have for my two daughters, and to live two hours away is a temporal sin that will be fixed; I can’t blow them kisses from two hours away, they’ll only twirl in the dust and gale of the iPhones, cleave the bones of Mr. Candy but from a city so beautiful it softens the sincerity of a hex. My lack of my two baby girls in my everyday life, my organic Scarlett Rose, and my moonlit Mayzee Rae, I just want you two to know that a man who walks alone without his angels, just spins like a drunken ballerina, cries in a world of cruel and infinite nights. I love you so much it hurts; my heart is cut in thirds as we wait for each other on the other side of Eden.

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