you are probably the awesomest person to see this

My dad has one of those memories where he doesn’t remember things. And he’s always right about what he fauxmembers.  If you’re asked for “the only picture of the one and only living unicow” because he “gave it to you two days ago,” you better go find the second living unicow. and STAT. 

They probably just should have named me Your Father’s Daughter. Sometimes it’s more fitting than Sara.

My dad doesn’t remember how, when I was nine, we spent 8 months listening to Billy Joel on repeat and how Goodnight Saigon was the only thing that could make my stone cold self cry.

He doesn’t remember (swears it isn’t true and then smirks a little) how I learned my favorite word when we looked over at a women talking to herself in her car one day when I was eleven and he said, “She’s probably talking about fucking herself.” I got confused and then tied that memory up tight and gave it to myself as a present. 

He doesn’t remember how he took me to my very first Power Breakfast (if you wear your jammies to a power breakfast, it’s a PB&J) in Manhattan and then took me to the Book Expo as his “just say you’re my children’s books coordinator." 

I used to ski. My mother is one of those world class skiers. It was imperative that I know how to ski. My dad doesn’t ski. He’s balance challenged. Don’t tell him I told you. We all pretend that the day I stopped skiing was the day I skied into that tree, but it’s really just because, when my family goes skiing, I get 3 days of hiking alone with my dad and the dog (my dad’s favorite kid). 

And he doesn’t remember how much of a pain I’ve been these 19 years. Or it doesn’t show. 

Now, he fixes my bike and buys fencing for my garden and comes with me when I ask because I was lying about wanting to be alone for everything. He’s strong for me and I’m even stronger back. He wonders if he’s done enough, so far, in life to help others and everyone else knows that he’s done enough for 100 lifetimes. 

Even at nine, I wished that "and we would all go down together” could bind me to my dad forever. 

I remember everything. That time in fifth grade when I wrote about my hero and I didn’t say it was him. “Papa! The teacher said my writing was great!” “This is ok. You could do better." 

So, here’s my hero paper, Dad. Thanks for letting me "watermelon” my way through two whole verses of We Didn’t Start the Fire.