By: Wendy Shywalker

Dad.
Its an easy name for sons to call their fathers.
Not for me.
I had a father once, a good man, an honest man.
To a twelve year old boy, he was everything and on his death,
he achieved sainthood in his son's eyes.
I was holding my own at the orphanage, I was.
I could look after myself, I didn't need you. I didn't need anyone.
But you reminded my of my father, you wouldn't give up on me.
I said no, you'd say yes.
I'd say yes, you would say no.
But we would end meeting in the middle.
We both won.
I got a father, you got a son.
When the nightmares would come in the darkness,
it was you that would sit beside me and like my own personal St. George,
you would banish the dragons from my night.
As I grew, I saw a man who had taken a frightened inner child,
who had asked for nothing in return.
Nothing, not even the title that comes with the job of raising this boy.
Did I ever hurt you when I called you Paul? You never showed it, if it did.
When I called in my nightmares for a the man long gone,
did it cause you pain?
But you were there when everything would go wrong; you would be
the one to fix my problems or show me the way.
You were the one to loan me the car, for my first date.
You were the one that stood proud the day I was to graduate.
So with the Spirit of my father watching, and with all my love
I give the one thing you never had:
I give the name
I love you, Dad.