My Father

Author's Note:
This is the story I wrote for our plot triangle writing piece. (Exposition, rising action, climax, falling action, and lack of resolution)  It is being narrated by the daughter. I am focusing on my conventions and voice.

My father and I were walking through the woods one day.  We took our walks every Sunday, just after church.  There are no other houses for miles so we know that we are alone with the forest, our forest.  I enjoy these walks, because I hardly get to see my father anymore, for he works in the city ten hours a day.  The two of us talk about the bright orange flowers we see, my latest report card, and even how I had gotten a little burned after our last hiking trip.  Once, I had even made him a necklace with leaves and little rocks I carved as beads.  But then one day those walks stopped. 

My mother and I were never quite sure where my father had run off to, but by now she has forgotten about too much for me to bring it up again. She never wanted to forget, but one day she decided she had to, we had to.  I’ve never even heard her pronounce his name since that day. Sometimes I miss my father and sometimes I don’t. It always has bothered me as to why he left us.  Was it me, was it my mom, was it someone else?  Those have been the questions rattling around in my head for all of these years.

 Ever since he left, my mom has always blamed herself for letting him slip away.  She still gets mad sometimes, she won’t say why, but I know it’s because she’s thinking about him.  My father had that effect on people.  He could say a simple word and that word would turn heads, just in the way that he could say it. They were just words, but my father made them special.  Like king Mitus, turning things to gold: My father made things special, like me.

He and my mother always told me I was special.  Not to sound conceded, but I think they were right.  I’m not as sure now that he’s gone, but he always told I was an amazing artist because I could make my paintings come alive.  How I could turn a simple flower into a mural and a simple bowl of fruit into a gallery.  That’s the one thing that I miss most about my father, that he could talk to anyone.

It has already been over five years since he left, but we never moved on. We tell people we have, but we haven’t.  My mom hasn’t even been on a date since he left and I have never been able to really open up to anyone about it. 

Just over two weeks ago now, my mother and I took a trip to New York. It was the most magical place I have ever been to.  We saw Times Square and watched Wicked on Broadway and can say we walked where stars have walked, but the trip went downhill fast when we both saw a man with a necklace.  My necklace, the necklace that I had made my father out of little rocks many years before. The same necklace that I had made for him to symbolize our walks.  The walks he’s missed out on for over five years. 

I just couldn’t take it anymore and I marched right over to the man, but then I stopped.  What am I supposed to say, “Hey I’m that daughter you walked out on half a decade ago.”  I decide to play it stupid, maybe it’ll work.

“Excuse me mister, do you happen to know what time it is?” He turned around ready to answer, but he paused.

I knew it.  I knew he was my father, you don’t pause when you’re telling someone the time unless they’re daughter. He turned back around and sprinted into a mob of people.  I ran as fast as I could to catch up with him and once I found him in my sight I ran faster, and faster, and faster until I caught hold of his briefcase and pulled it downward.  He fell down hard and started to cry. I started to feel bad, but then I remembered what he did to me and my mom.

“WHY?!” I shouted at him as angrily as I could.
“I didn’t want to, I promise.” He said with a pout in his lip.  By now my mother had caught up to us and started to cry even harder than he was.

“Let me explain, I just I couldn’t take lying to you and I wanted to protect you.”

“Sure you did.” I shot back.

“I’m serious I love you, both of you, but I was involved in something I couldn’t bear telling you and couldn’t bear not telling you.  So I left.  It was my only way out.” He whimpered.

“What was it?” My mother had finally gotten out some words.

“I saw a man, Sirius Black, being murdered.  I know who the killer was, but his friends told me if I told anyone then they would kill everyone I loved.”

“Seriously?” I said in half disbelief. I mean I never thought that my father would have a legitimate reason to leave, but there he was.  Giving me one.

“I’m so sorry.” And he turned and left.
“Wait! Where are you going?” My mother hissed.
“If I come back now they will still kill you both.”

“Isn’t there another way?” I begged.

“Yes.”  I was shocked at what he just said. Then he pulled out an old looking stick and shouted, “Stupefy!” and he ran off.