In my father’s house, I would always slip back into that girl again. She was everywhere in here, and out there, in the cane. The smiling Rasta girl who had no idea what doom was coming, even though she reminded me what to do in the face of it. Guiding me to persevere, no matter the weather, to harden around my own dreams like a pearl. My father couldn’t set that Rasta girl free in his mind. He clasped onto that daughter like driftwood, keeping him afloat in Babylon’s torment, saving him from drowning in his life’s crashing disappointment. He would never see me as I was. He would never hear me.
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