when i was a little girl

my father often let me choose

a stuffed animal at the grocery store,

my small hands plucking

a brand new beanie baby

from the display in the bakery.
at home with my sister,

i threw birthday parties

for the plush zoo we’d curated,

making banners and party hats

with colored pencils

and construction paper.

dad would sit with us

and laugh, entertaining

our imaginations and helping

to hang our homemade decor,

trying to craft our dreams

into reality.
eventually my dad grew

distant, locking himself

alone in his office while

my sister and i continued

to play pretend and i tried

my best to ignore the pill

bottles piling up in the kitchen

cabinets.
it would be easier

to be angry but i can’t

help loving who he was

and the idea of who

he could have been.
as i help my mother unpack

her garage i catch a glimpse

of a plastic tote that holds

my childhood and i recognize

the squished face of a small

white tiger, a body i used

to hold as my father

tucked me in at night,

telling me he loved me

while walking away.