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Darrell A Cador

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Member Since: Apr, 2007

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Through My Daddy’s Eyes
by Darrell A Cador

Saturday, April 28, 2007
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Through My Daddy’s Eyes

     As a child I never understood the gist of my father holding doors open for me. Be it leaving the home or entering the car he’d be right there with a smile. Other than to assist my comings and goings I figured it to be Daddy just being himself. Neither could I comprehend the spontaneous arrival of dazzling violets, stunning lilies, and vibrant orchids that he’d either send home or bring home with him from his day’s labor. However, the one timeless moment I could always count on, that kept me smiling no matter what, and the one that placed second only to a heart-warming kiss on the cheek from him, was to see my father reaching out for my hand. And more importantly, to feel him taking mine into his.
     The true intentions of these and similar gestures were oblivious to me during my youth, for I had no idea that my Daddy was simply laying the foundation for the little girl that I was; the daughter I’ll always be; and the woman I’d soon become. A foundation that would forever prompt me to expect to be treated for who and what I am: A Beautiful Black Woman. Such grooming at such an early age has blessed me with the ability to sort the good-natured, warm-hearted, well-intentioned brothers from the tall, dark, and handsome imposters who look to receive far less than they’re willing, or even able to give.
     With rich, old-school values etched deep into the fiber of my being I can’t help but to highly favor a man who keeps God at the forefront of his existence, for without The Almighty, there would be no existence to even speak of. If Daddy could only be here today, to see the woman his little girl has finally become I believe he’d be proud. Proud, not only of the daughter he helped to produce, but of the woman he’s responsible for making.   

By Darrell A. Cador © 2005

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Reviewed by Linda Newton Perry 6/24/2008
Very beautiful. I'm glad you had a loving father.
So many of us didn't.
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