I'm usually known for writing poetry, mixing up words and twisting phrases to make people think and analyze, but one of my poems could never do this subject justice. I'm not even sure if I have enough words ready now to do that myself, right here on paper. I mean, do you know what it's like to have all of your fears taken away within a matter of seconds and to know that, no matter what, the person who did all of that would always be by your side? I'm sitting in my room right now, curled up in my computer chair, listening to Taylor Swift's “The Best Day” on repeat. I already know that it is the song I will play at my wedding, in ten or so odd years, for the father-daughter dance that I have always looked forward to. And, it's got me thinking about my dad and everything that we have gone through in the sixteen years that I have been alive, not that I remember all of it, of course, but still.

Sometimes, when I think about everything my dad has done for me, I look at old photographs and other times I just think to a few years back. Right now I have a picture beside me; it's from about 1994 or 95. In the picture, there's a little girl bundled in a light, robin-egg blue, snowsuit, and a pair or construction books on her small, toddler feet. Holding her is her father, he's in a coal black jumpsuit with his worn bluejeans peaking out at the bottom. He has on an old ball-cap, gloves, and a pair of dark brown hiking boots. His arms are wrapped around his daughter, his first born, almost three at the time. They are both covered in powdery, white snow after riding down a backyard hill on a hot-pink sled. (The only time you'll ever see a man donning something pink so as to appease his young daughter to bring out the smile in her blue eyes.) It was an action shot, with the both of them laughing. Me and my daddy.

The scene, where the dad is holding onto his daughter for dear life, ready to jump at anything deemed scary so as to keep his child's mind at a peaceful bay, reminds me of another picture in my life. A somber scene where the father is holding his daughter as her body shudders in grief, agonized tears painting dark streaks down her face. She, well I, was about twelve at the time, and there is no need to discuss the tragedy that caused such sorrow, only the matter of who was there to clean it up and comfort. Once again, my daddy had came to the rescue.

Every night before I go to bed, my daddy hugs me goodnight and kisses the top of my head. Sometimes this brings tears to my eyes when I think about everything we have been through together. As he hugs me, I think of all that he has helped me through. And, whether its looking back at the picture of him, mustache and all, feeding me my Elmo birthday cake on my first birthday, or the picture that was taken in my head, just this morning while both of us were standing together by the coffee pot, I know he will always be there for me, and I know that no matter how old I am or how much I've grown, I'll always be my daddy's little girl.