When I was six months old,

my father died and left me,

He was a mixture of antidepressants and Camel cigarettes.

His truck became his casket, as it hit the swaying Dogwood tree.

At the age of eight, my grandmother found an old bottle of his cologne,

and she allowed the daughter who would never meet him to see what it would be like

if she got to take in his scent, minus the warmth of his embrace in which she would get it from.

Sometimes, the curiosity was overbearing, and I would sit smelling the bottle for hours on end.

I began to look at pictures of him, linking the scent of the cologne to the red headed man that resided within the frame.

I began to compare myself to him, noting the freckles that were splatered in the exact same place, as if the creator had coated our faces with the same brush, in the same fashion, to remind me that he lived in someway.

Engulfed in water, my blond locks began to shimmer a strawberry blonde,

red locks of hair floating to the surface, and I was reminded, he was here.

I am the spitting image of what in my mind to this day is the perfect father.

I overcame the notion that he was gone, and realized he was here.

I am his flesh and blood, his bones, and his smile,

I am his funny nature, and his love of painting, the final masterpiece he offered to the world.

I am flawless.