freestyle poems and ballads

Personal Narrative. My Father.

My dad, was not my father. My biological father, a solid nineteen years old when I was born, was nowhere near prepared. While he was absent most of my childhood, another man took his place. My mother's best friend, and my half-brother's father, Ron. He was a tall, heavy-set man, but he was as friendly as could be. I always remember him wearing a solid red t-shirt that was filled with holes, and some black basketball shorts. He was loving, and cuddly, and kind, no matter what. Ron often times stayed with my brother and I at our mom's house during the weekdays to take care of us; my mom has always been uninvolved and emotionally unstable. Every weekend I would walk with him and my brother Damien to his apartment, and when he moved a bit further away, we switched from walking to riding the CATS bus. I remember having little movie nights every Wednesday and Friday. We'd sit all snuggled together on the patched patterned couch, eat our favorite snacks, and watch a movie before bed. Ron would make us breakfast, lunch, and dinner every single day, even after we grew old enough to do it on our own. With my dad not in the picture for most of my childhood, and my mom virtually nonexistent the days we saw her, Ron was all I had, "King Daddy Ron" I called him. I trusted him, loved him, and knew nothing other then his care. I remember so many good days from my childhood with Ron, and also some melancholy ones. There is one day in particular that I will never forget for as long as I live.
We walked out of the sliding glass door, it screeched on the tracks as I closed it. The air was dense, it was far hotter than I anticipated. We walked up the long parking lot in silence, next to each other in an oddly straight line. We got to the end where the lot met the bend in the road. There was a crowd of rocks, varying in size. Damien and I sat on the largest rock, Ron stood next to us. We waited for the big purple bus to round the corner. We went to Applebees. We sat, and laughed, we ordered our food, and laughed some more. I saw all of Ron's family for the first time in years. They treated me as if I was their own. This was the last time I saw Ron before he died. He didn't have enough money to buy me my own bed, I slept in his bed at the start of each night, and then a few hours later when he was ready to rest, he would move me onto the full-sized pull out couch bed in the living room. The night after our delicious Applebee's day out, I laid in bed, underneath my soft, tan, blanket. I closed my eyes tightly, pretending to be asleep so that he would carry me out to the couch rather than make me walk. The bed shifted instead, and a new weight had been added. He didn't pick me up, or call my name, or wake me in any way. He just laid down, right there next to me. He said hello, and I sat up, thinking he's talking to me, and he knew I was faking it. I look to him and realize quickly he wasn't talking to me. He was talking through the phone that laid flat on his heaving chest, a 911 operator on the other end. I sat there silent, unsure of what to say or do. My brother was sat up now, in the bed next to ours. We both just sat and stare, impatiently waiting for some form of explanation or instruction. He started to hand the phone to me, telling me to talk to the man on the other end. I shake my head, no, and I continue to watch as my brother takes the phone instead. Damien didn't have a clue what was going on. Mildly autistic and still only half-awake, there was little he could tell or explain. After only a few short sentences, I took my blanket, and my floppy-headed teddy bear, and I walked out to the living room. I slowly laid on the couch bed that I was so readily prepared for just minutes ago, and cried. I was scared, and unsure. Immediately feeling the guilt of not being able to do more to help, but also not having the courage to even try. A few minutes that felt like hours passed, and the paramedics walked through the door. I could hear them in the bedroom behind me, my brother hanging up the phone and walking into the living room where I laid. My mother and her close friend, Marcus, walked in. Marcus took my brother and I to his car. As we walked out that same sliding glass door, I watched my mother and the paramedics roll by, performing chest compressions trying to get Ron to breathe once again. I hardly slept that night. I just watched my father die, and I didn't do anything about it. I've never felt more guilty about anything as much as I do from that night. I could have helped. I could have talked to the operator like he asked. I could have done something.
Ron was hands down the most important person in my life, and still to this day leaves a huge impact on how I am as a person. He was extremely kind, and considerate, He was trustworthy and supportive. He was appreciative of everyone and everything he had, and was never afraid to reach out and ask for help when he needed it. Looking back now, I've learned some things from him, and learned some things about myself as well. I've always been so hard on myself, I acted like it was all my fault. But, it wasn't. I did all that I could, I showed him all of the love I had. He was struggling, even before then, but still I loved unconditionally. I know now that there is no more or no less that I could have done but love him like the helpless little girl I was. I still feel the pain, though, and I still miss him each and every day. He was all I had. He was my support. He was my hero. Ron was not my father, that's a fact, but I loved him like he was. The love and support that you can both give and receive from your family is incredibly valuable. Feeling like I am cared for and appreciated makes me more courageous, and able to take on more action and responsibility than I would on my own. I take this experience, and I use it as a reminder and a motivator. I am overwhelmingly grateful for my health, my family, and all that I have. I am now more driven than ever to be a positive spirit, and to ensure that those around me know that they are not alone. Family is the most crucial thing, no matter how it's built. Love your family, and never lose that connection. It's valuable, and alway will be.