Dead-Inside Dad

My father gave me his glass knees and dark sense of humor.

His hazel eyes with the gold flecks on green.

His love for books and good food.

He told me to stop looking in the mirror so much, because vanity was a sin. He never left the house without ironing his shirts and slacks, shaving, trimming his fingernails, cleaning his shoes, and walking through a cloud of expensive cologne.

He told me to drink hot tea in the summer (because it would cool me down more than ice water) and dry between my toes (so I wouldn’t get athlete’s foot) and stop wearing make-up (because it would make me break out). I didn’t believe him when he was right.

He told me I shouldn’t bike too much (or else my ankles would get too big and no man likes big ankles) and never cut my hair (because it wouldn’t look feminine) and read about the Illuminati (because I didn’t know how the world worked). I often believed him when he was wrong.

He hissed You are just like your mother in a way that made me hate both of them. He called me munchkin when I was little and bitch when I was a teen and intimidating when I was grown. But he was always the one I was the most scared of.

I never knew he was terrified of me, too.