They all age one year
while I age seven
with a life so heavy.
I use thoughts of you
to rid myself of general
teenage angst,
discovering new
creative ways
of expression.
Anything to avoid saying
you've been dead for eight years.

Your red and white sweater
is balled up in the corner of my room,
burried under jeans and underwear.
I used to wear it most of the time,
pretending it was you wrapped around me
instead of the wool.
But now I'm too scared
of the tears
touching it would bring.

I feel a twinge of sorrow
when girls talk of their fathers
as I find myself
contemplating
on who would give me away
on my wedding day
in the future.

I try not to like the things
you held to high regard,
but you influenced me too much-
I like rock music,
two guitars, a bass
and a drum set.
I become attracted
to men reminding me of you,
hoping they'll enlighten me
like you did when I was a child.
I want to write science fiction,
create worlds like
those that captivated you.

Everyone ages one year,
I age seven,
left alone with these
dog years.