The Smallest Of Them All

A Beat That Cannot Be Silenced

It was a normal weekday for me. I do the same exact thing every day in the same exact order - I come home, eat the entire kitchen, hug my dog even though he doesn’t want to be hugged and wait for my dad to get home before I take my usual after school nap. But, today was kinda different.

Making myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and popping open an Orange Crush, I turned on my Walking Dead recording and watched it, again, as I waited for my dad. Slumping back in the chair, I ripped off bits of the tainted bread and analyzed the show for what seemed like the tenth time. After awhile, my dog and I heard the garage start to open. He started to freak out as I began to put away all of the sandwich materials.

When he walked in, my dad first addressed the dog and not me, his daughter, which was typical. “Hey buddy! Hey Rudy!” he said, the words bubbled out of his mouth. Dropping down his uniform shirt and lunch box, he picked up the dog and cuddled him before talking to me.

“Hey Dad,” I said with fake enthusiasm, knowing he would eventually turn his focus to me.

As predicted, he set down Rudy and picked his stuff up, making his way around the kitchen to store away all of his casual, everyday, Honda required equipment. Grabbing a cup from the cabinet, he stuck it under the refrigerator door and pushed down on the handle, getting a cool drink. “Hey Tay,” he said, using my nickname. He was one of the first people ever to cut down my name to only one syllable.

“How was work?”

“Fine, long day though,” he waited to go on as he got a straw out from the rectangle box in the sliding cabinet, “How was school?”

I paused the show so I wouldn’t miss anything and took a few more bites from my snack, “Good, I got a good grade on my history test I think.”

Our conversations were always like this, casual, but we made sure to always have them. Like not telling each other about our days would be like a part of it was yet to be completed.

“Nice,” and that was all he said.

Getting out of my chair now, I walk over to where he was standing, raising my arms like I was younger than I actually am. I may have an older face, but my wants and needs were much too juvenile. Looking up at the bald guy, I said simply, “Gimmie a hug.”

This was something that I requested often. And my dad pretty much always says the same thing he said that Monday, “No.”

“Dad, please.”

“I’m tired, and I got stuff to do: no.”

“Dad, I’m your daughter, you have to hug me.”

“No, I don’t, move,” he said, trying to end the conversation just like that. He should have known better.

Stomping my foot on the ground like a toddler would when denied a toy, I scowled at him: “Gimmie a hug, now!”

Getting visibly angered now, he scowled back at me, “I said no!”

“DAD.”

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, setting his water down forcefully before throwing his arms around me. Happy with myself, I laughed and hugged him back, knowing that this was always going to be a battle I would win.

As I was hugging him, my head was rested against his chest as his was hanging to the side in irritation. My dad is considerably taller than me, so that’s where my head usually ends up landing. But this time, it felt different. As I was held there, I could hear my own father’s heartbeat through his shirt, his chest, and right into my ear.

Pulling away uncomfortably, I return back to my kitchen table to clean up my pop can and dirty plate. Saying a quick goodbye, I jog up my stairs and head into my room. Flopping down onto my bed and pulling the covers over my body, I thought about what had just happened.

I’ve always liked spending time with my dad, whether it be watching baseball on TV, making lunch, going to concerts or even simple things like driving out to pick up a pizza. And I always had to have some kind of contact with him too, like play fighting or leaning on him when we watched a movie. But that hug was different. Almost like I hadn’t had any real validation that he was alive and breathing next to me before all of that.

And like most living, breathing things, they have to die.

That was where my heart sank. What was going to happen when I didn’t have him with me anymore? Who was going to make me a “double stacked” grilled cheese sandwich? Or talk to me when mean boys become meaner than they already are? What about when I find a spider in my room and I’m terrified to go back in there until he murders it comically and cleans it up? How the hell was I even going to be okay?

My relationship with my dad is much different than it is with my mom. I could tell him anything, much like I could tell my mom the same thing. The thing was, my dad had a way of speaking the truth to me, no matter how harsh it was. In the end, I would see it his way anyway. He could always find a way of keeping me grounded, advising me to not get in over my head in different scenarios. And when I did, he was always the first one to say, “I told you so!” I hated hearing it from anyone else but him.

I’ve been a daddy’s girl my entire life. So, what do I call myself when daddy is no longer there?

The Websters dictionary definition of a father is, “a man who has begotten a child,” and the definition of a heartbeat is, “the action or sound of the heart as it pumps blood.” But those aren’t the same words I’d use. Not a single one. That’s not even close. My father is worth more than a few words strung together, placed under a title people think they already know the meaning to.

My dad is a lion tamer, a comedian, a world class chef, a chauffeur, a maid, a body guard, a neighborhood Superman. Everyone who meets him, falls in love with his personality and his heart. My father is a God damn hero. So to hell with the simple sentence he is given in a fat book of definitions, they don’t know Donald Murphy the second. They don’t know Donald, Don, Donnie, or even Murph. They don’t know Dad.

In the end, my dad may hate giving me so many hugs and giving me so much attention, but for the time being, it’s the one thing I’m holding onto.

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The prompt was to write about something that may seem to have a small value, but once you look further into it, you can find a deeper meaning.

-TaylorMarie