Footsteps

I've spent my whole life 

walking in your footsteps. 

I even wore your boots once, to school. 

Shiny black Army jump boots 

polished to perfection 

and lent for "camouflage day," 

along with your uniform. 

That day was merely the latest instance 

of my lifetime spent following you, 

my lifetime spent looking for you. 

I learned that day 

what I should have known before. 

That I can think like you 

and I can act like you, 

but I will never be able to fill your space. 

I'll always be a little girl 

spinning in her daddy's office chair, 

always a little girl, 

never big enough. 

Sometimes when I was younger 

I would try to make myself absent 

like you always were. 

I never spoke. 

I spent my whole life reading, sleeping, watching tv 

all curled up to take up no space. 

I read books about imaginary places 

and wondered if that was where you went. 

Put on your boots and your beret 

and march off to Narnia or Middle Earth. 

I don't think it ever occurred to me 

that you were in danger, 

that you could be shot and killed. 

You were gone 

so I curled up and read and didn't say anything. 

You came back 

so I curled up and watched tv with you and didn't say anything. 

You were gone again. 

I've spent my whole life 

walking in your footsteps. 

No matter what I tried, 

I couldn't get you to turn around, 

Couldn't get you to notice me. 

You were a good soldier, 

Eyes straight ahead, 

Focused on the task at hand. 

Good job, baby, 

I'm proud of you you're daddy's little girl. 

Here I am now, daddy, 

a big girl, a college student. 

Here I am wearing my own boots and uniform, 

going to your school.

 Around my neck hangs your unit crest. 

Around my ankles 

hang the shackles of my childhood. 

I was born with camouflage blood. 

I cannot escape who I am, 

and the person I am cannot escape who you are. 

I just keep sliding along 

a soft grey shadow 

following this man around. 

This man I barely know. 

Somewhere inside of me 

there's still a little girl curled up in her closet 

with a book and a lamp trying not to exist. 

She says that it's okay, daddy, 

if we celebrate her birthday tomorrow instead. 

She knows that you would be here, 

always, 

if you could.