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Description
A girl never met
By Eric Odum

I asked him why, why did he name his daughter that?
Why did he name her Alexis?
He said, “I own a hondai and I could never afford one so I named her Alexis.”
I laughed,
She cried because that’s what four month old baby girls do they cry, they cry tears that dry fast because the air wipes them away telling her that it’s ok, speaking in a language of burps and hiccups.
“I have dreams for her, I have dreams for her.” He said, his eyes glittering with unborn stars of tomorrow, dreaming dreams for his dreamless baby girl.
She grew,
She grew into a child that wore thin rimless glasses because her eyes were shaped irregularly but regularly her daddy decided to tell her it was her fault, told that she could never touch rims with rimless glasses, couldn’t grasp the future if it was seen through glass and she cried, and the dirt wiped her tears speaking in her language of half spoken words and dry coughs, in a vague understanding of the what an eight year old girl feels, and I watched,
Her body becoming a mirror, every crack leading to 7 more years of her tears, and I wanted to tell her that it was ok,
that fate was still turning her gears and that she would move on,
that her tires would start churning on concrete that would bite at her ankles because she would need the incentive to continue,
but my voice remained lost,
“You should be a doctor”, he told her before her eighth grade graduation, she wore a pink blazer under her blue gown and she smiled
“I don’t like blood daddy.”
“Be a lawyer.”
“I don’t want to judge someone daddy.”
“Be a banker.”
“Handling that much money would make me nervous daddy.”
And the music started to play, it reached its crescendo and he walked out, turned away
“You’ll end up be nothing.” He spat, venom with no antidote spewing from his lips.
And she whispered to his back, his ears hearing nothing but the hard thump of blood,
“I want to be something daddy.”
And she graduated, tears mingled with pale flesh she cried again as did the rest of her class, but she didn’t cry tears of I’ll miss you or tears of I’ll keep in touch, no,
she cried tears of not good enough, dry heaves of remorse for making daddy mad, for not making him proud, and the night sky comforted her,
it wiped away her tears because the darkness swallows all, it made her feel whole, speaking in the language of a teen beginning.
“I want to be a writer.” She told him as she reached the end of her High school career, glancing at brochures for colleges over ponds and river, over mountain and valleys
“A what?” He said, “These are not the dreams I had for my baby girl, not the dreams I had for my little Alexis, I wanted you to be something, dream the dreams I couldn’t—“
“But daddy,” She said, “I live for me.” And she pushed herself away from the table that stood in the middle of their kitchen and she walked to the screen door unlocking it, pushing against the mesh material and paused.
“Don’t come back if you leave out that door.”
She turned to him and said, “Daddy I don’t want to live with you anymore, I grew up with long nights of studying hard making sure not to disappoint, I went through things and I went without—but not anymore Daddy, I live for me now.” And she left.
As she padded across the concrete to the bus that would lead her to a future unknown she cried again, cried tears brought on mental bruises caused by daddy, she cried for living together but being alone, but she would be a writer,
And I comforted her, I whispered let me dream weave you a scarf of my imagination and keep your creativity warm, let me wrap your broken intuition with my bandages of tomorrow, let me cover up your sorrow with mine, my resolve you can borrow.
To a girl I never met, but knew existed, I hope to catch your name someday—I hope I didn’t miss ya.

Description
A girl never met
By Eric Odum

I asked him why, why did he name his daughter that?
Why did he name her Alexis?
He said, “I own a hondai and I could never afford one so I named her Alexis.”
I laughed,
She cried because that’s what four month old baby girls do they cry, they cry tears that dry fast because the air wipes them away telling her that it’s ok, speaking in a language of burps and hiccups.
“I have dreams for her, I have dreams for her.” He said, his eyes glittering with unborn stars of tomorrow, dreaming dreams for his dreamless baby girl.
She grew,
She grew into a child that wore thin rimless glasses because her eyes were shaped irregularly but regularly her daddy decided to tell her it was her fault, told that she could never touch rims with rimless glasses, couldn’t grasp the future if it was seen through glass and she cried, and the dirt wiped her tears speaking in her language of half spoken words and dry coughs, in a vague understanding of the what an eight year old girl feels, and I watched,
Her body becoming a mirror, every crack leading to 7 more years of her tears, and I wanted to tell her that it was ok,
that fate was still turning her gears and that she would move on,
that her tires would start churning on concrete that would bite at her ankles because she would need the incentive to continue,
but my voice remained lost,
“You should be a doctor”, he told her before her eighth grade graduation, she wore a pink blazer under her blue gown and she smiled
“I don’t like blood daddy.”
“Be a lawyer.”
“I don’t want to judge someone daddy.”
“Be a banker.”
“Handling that much money would make me nervous daddy.”
And the music started to play, it reached its crescendo and he walked out, turned away
“You’ll end up be nothing.” He spat, venom with no antidote spewing from his lips.
And she whispered to his back, his ears hearing nothing but the hard thump of blood,
“I want to be something daddy.”
And she graduated, tears mingled with pale flesh she cried again as did the rest of her class, but she didn’t cry tears of I’ll miss you or tears of I’ll keep in touch, no,
she cried tears of not good enough, dry heaves of remorse for making daddy mad, for not making him proud, and the night sky comforted her,
it wiped away her tears because the darkness swallows all, it made her feel whole, speaking in the language of a teen beginning.
“I want to be a writer.” She told him as she reached the end of her High school career, glancing at brochures for colleges over ponds and river, over mountain and valleys
“A what?” He said, “These are not the dreams I had for my baby girl, not the dreams I had for my little Alexis, I wanted you to be something, dream the dreams I couldn’t—“
“But daddy,” She said, “I live for me.” And she pushed herself away from the table that stood in the middle of their kitchen and she walked to the screen door unlocking it, pushing against the mesh material and paused.
“Don’t come back if you leave out that door.”
She turned to him and said, “Daddy I don’t want to live with you anymore, I grew up with long nights of studying hard making sure not to disappoint, I went through things and I went without—but not anymore Daddy, I live for me now.” And she left.
As she padded across the concrete to the bus that would lead her to a future unknown she cried again, cried tears brought on mental bruises caused by daddy, she cried for living together but being alone, but she would be a writer,
And I comforted her, I whispered let me dream weave you a scarf of my imagination and keep your creativity warm, let me wrap your broken intuition with my bandages of tomorrow, let me cover up your sorrow with mine, my resolve you can borrow.
To a girl I never met, but knew existed, I hope to catch your name someday—I hope I didn’t miss ya.