Unfinished thoughts

He always wore these nice boots. They used to make this loud clomp clomp sound when he walked, it would echo across the house on the porcelain tiles. One time I remember I was sleeping in my bedroom, and I heard his boots clomp-clomping again in the kitchen. I ran out of my bedroom in happiness much like a child who thinks they hear Santa put presents under the Christmas tree. So excited. But then I saw him. It wasn't him. It wasn't him. Instead it was Norm. It was Norm. It. Was. Norm. Not. My. Dead. Daddy. It was: themanmymotherwascheatingonmyfatherwithandhewasthereinthekitchenmakingthesoundsmyfathermadeliftingmeupwithhopeandthencrushingmeaway. Hope. Crushed. So once again like a child during Christmas, who runs out to see Santa and then is destroyed by the fact that there IS no Santa, there IS no coming back after death, there IS no Daddy. He wouldn't ever come back. What was I thinking? I still remember that day. I can't ever forget it if I forget everything in the world, I'll never forget that day. Does anything make that better? Does anyone wonder why I am the way I am? What happens to the mind of a child stays with them for the rest of their lives. Embedded. Inside.