He was my Puff



He was more than just my father, he was my puff and I was his. He was the person who taught me everything. The person who followed my school bus each year on the first day of school to make sure I got to school safe. The person who would take me to Starbucks just to ask me my thoughts on life, religion and politics. The person who made time for me.  The person who referred to himself as “Wolfiss” and chased me around the house. He was the person who saw cuts on my wrist and cleaned the blood as he told me he loved me. The person who loved me, truly, truly, loved me.

I was there in his final breaths. I sat by his side and watched as the shell of a man who used to be Bob Gore moaned in pain as he slowly allowed death to become him. I kissed his corpse and thanked him for being the best Puff a girl could ask for. The voices saying time of death are stuck to me like a tattoo, permanently stabbing my skin knowing that moment will follow me forever.

I woke up today as the parade of Im so sorry’s continued from strangers fogged my entire day. I’m sorry, too. If you ask me, this is bullshit. My dad should be alive, I shouldn’t have to look ahead and see all the grown up places we never went. Puff shouldn’t be a picture on my key chain or a closet filled with his clothes, Puff should be in his chair, alive and well with the knowledge that he was perfectly healthy. But he isn’t. He is dead. I will never be called Puff again. And somehow I have to figure out how I am going to survive the next day, the next morning, the next hour, the next minute knowing that he is no longer here. This sucks. Every inch of it sucks and I just want it to be over.


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