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Like Father Like Daughter

This author is a recipient

of the Sigma Tau Delta Award

Sigma Tau Delta Awarde

When my dad was young, 

he met a woman.

She was beautiful and kind,

funny and charming.

She knew how he felt.

Nothing ever happened.

She grew up.

Moved away.

Had a husband and kids.

She died of cancer.

My dad ended up marrying

my mother instead.

I asked him once

if he ever loved her.

He said marrying her 

was the best thing 

he had ever done,

because it gave him

“two amazing children.”

He said nothing 

of love.

I think about him a lot.

How he's a hopeless romantic

even if he won’t admit it.

He always cries 

during Hallmark Christmas movies

and tells me he feels alone

at night without his kids.

My heart aches for this man.

I wonder if we’ll 

turn out the same.

I too met a woman.

She was beautiful and kind.

Funny and charming.

But, she was so much more

than just that.

This girl looked at me

while I screamed and cried—

saying she would wait

until the storm was over.

She layed in my lap.

Sun in her face.

Eyes closed.

Head tilted up.

She called me for help

when she got too fucked up-

let me tuck her in.

We celebrated Rosh Hashanah.

Tossed peas into the river

so the ducks wouldn’t get sick.

We shared clothes

more often than not.

I met her parents

and her little brother. 

I told her I love her 

almost every day.

She only said it back 


I don’t think 

she remembers it. 

She met a boy.

Moved away.

I saw her once

after that.

A Halloween party.

I hated my costume.

Wished my other friend was there.

Wasn’t allowed to vape inside. 

Then, there she was.

Without warning.

Coming through the crowd.

I don’t even remember her costume.

Just her eyes. 

She pulled me in

by the tie.

She stared at me.

The world stopping 

for just a moment—

before fixing it. 

We haven’t talked much

since then.

I miss it even when

I’m not paying attention.

Something always lingering 

on the sidelines.

I’ve met other women.

Some beautiful or kind. 

Funny or charming.

But none of them 

call me the sun.

Or paint me pictures. 

They don’t call me cute

on the days I feel my worst.


I fall for it anyways.

Trick myself.

Say that just because

it’s not the same 

that it doesn’t mean

it’s not as good.

I can listen to their music. 

Even if I can still feel

the vibrations of the windows

as we blared her music

in the Taco Bell Drive Thru.

Wear their sweaters 

even if I can still remember 

the way her coat smells.

Let them shove their hands

in my hair, getting stuck.

Even though she gently

brushed her fingers through

a thousand times before.

I can pretend.

I’ve done it before.

I’ll do it again.

I’ll keep waiting.

Patiently sitting here for her. 

I don’t know

if she’ll ever 

come back.

Until then.

I call my dad 

and tell him

he’s not alone.


Olivia Jobe is a current student at St. Ambrose University who loves the little things. <3


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