my name is kai

My name is Kai, and I am just born. You are looking down at me, smiling and cooing. This is my first minute, first breath, first heart pump. You share it with me. I think you love me.

My name is Kai and I'm 3 years old. Today you took my little, chubby hand in yours and you took me to the sea. You told me about dolphins and waves and I giggled and grinned when you hugged me tighter than spandex shorts.

My name is Kai and I'm 5 years old. Today we went to a big building with real air planes like the ones in books you read to me at night before bed, before I fall into that dream world. 

But you start to cry and I do to, after daddy kisses my head and gets onto one of those planes. You tell me he is a soldier now and he's going to fight to keep people safe. You say he'll be back soon, and not to worry.

My name is Kai and I am 7 years old. Today I rock back and forth with you on the porch swing. You braid my long, brown hair and tell me stories about princesses and castles floating on pink clouds.  Meanwhile my hair weaves together like the memories we share. "tell me a daddy story now!" I suggest, but you sadly shake your head no.

My name is Kai and I'm 10. I want you right now. These girls are so mean. Sneeering and laughing. But not drop it all, milk squirting out of nose, chest hurst, tear splurge laughing. No. More like nasal, stuffy laughs directed at me. Please help me.

My name is Kai and now I'm 12. All the other girls have daddies. Why can't I have one.? He said, correction: you said, he'd come back soon. But that was 7 years ago, and 7 billion tears ago. Sometimes I miss Dad a lot, even though I don't really remember him. So I go and sit by the sea and let all my fears and hurts wash into the waves.

My name is Kai. I'm 14 years old, and I don't have a dad. I will never have a dad again. Because mine died. You cried all day long and so did I. But you cried harder than me, longer than me. Tears slid down your cheek, and every time one did my heart wrenched painfully.

My name is Kai and I'm 16. You came home today happier than I've seen you in a long time. I ask why and you say "I met Jesus. You can too." Now my name is Kai and I have a dad again. He's the best.

My name is Kai and I'm 20 years old. You sit beside me in church and we sing and sing and sing to our dad. I'm so glad you're happy. I'm so glad I'm happy. I finger the hair I braided together and think of all our memories.

My name is Kai and I'm 23 years old. His name is Jeremy. There's no human to walk me down the isle, but I know that Jesus is. Because he love me. You sit in the pew, smiling. Did I ever tell you your smile is as beautiful as a pink and orange Hawaiian sunset melting away? Only I hope your smile never melts away.

I'm Kai and I'm 28 years old.Her name is Meggie and she's 4. We splash in the waves by the sea. I tell her the stories of castles and kings, pink clouds and beautiful princesses with golden locks and dazzling eyes. She hugs me tight. Really tight. We take her kite and hold on to its little handle. It plays in the wind, bobbing up and down. Soon the sun starts setting making a big, beautiful Hawaiian sunset. A pinky orange sunset.

She frowns when I say it is time to go. But she smiles big, a sunset smile like yours, when I tell her we're going to visit you.