Good Pain

There is such thing.

It's death.

To not moan.  Not to wail and gnash in anger.  Not to crunch up one's face in agony of the heart.  To shy away from pain of death.  To run.

That is bad. 

I grab my heart with both hands and throw myself in.

He was far away, almost always.  He only came close a time or two and then he disdained me.  He strong-armed against what I had for him, what was deep in my heart.

I learned to silence myself.  To stop asking for things.  I learned to act happy.  I learned when to be somber, when to do nothing, when to be glad.

Later, much later, he became softer and craved my company.  My own armor was on too tight by then.  I chipped away at it, but he still did not want what was really under it.  Finally I gave up and only offered what would be wanted, outside my shell, calculated to smooth things.

I've treated most men like that-friends, coworkers and others-keeping my distance, putting on a show.  I knew the dance.

Over more time, we both got softer.  We both tried.  The last time we had a week together, the last time he could fly and came to see me, he said as he left, "We met on the plumb and parted on the square,"  As a Mason, to him that meant we were good with each  other; no harm, no foul.

But there had been harm.  A lot of it.  I could only get past it so much.

I sent him videos on his last day.  He smiled.  He knew I loved him.  I know he loved me.

It was fine.  Just fine, once I knew how not to be myself with him.

And now I don't need that.  He is gone.  I had a Daddy, now I don't.  I am in pain.  It's the purest kind.  It's clean and clear and right.  It's pure.  We were never square, but now I can be past that.  Now I can love him as just My Daddy.