My Father’s Women

by Holly Day

my father was never taught how to love us
and I would never fault him that. Despite
not having any women in his life between
the death of his mother and meeting my mother
he dealt with us, his daughters, as adequately
as any angry, confused young man could.
Evangelical, he lectured on and on
about how we had only two choices in the world, we could either
grow up to be intelligent, independent, strong,
and, if we were lucky, alone
or we could concentrate our energy on being pretty
and appealing
be a whore, just like our mother. Two choices
with no gray area allowances.
I never faulted him his confusion
with us, his reasoning, his world
where family and love equaled obligation and
unbearable responsibility.
I just wish he was still here
to see how sad and wrong his vision really was
and how good the things he hated could be.