By Chaquita Williams
He bought me those shoes. The shoes were a gift.
“These shoes will help you get your feet off the ground,” he said. He bought me a new pair of round toe, patent leather, three-inch heels from Shoe Show for my special day.
That day was May 25, 2005, Graduation Day. He said he was coming.
He didn’t show up.
On that day, I could hear the forceful clickety clank of the heels, the clap, clap, clap of the crowd, and the throb, thump, throb, thump contraction of my heart as I walked across the stage. The faces in the crowd greeted me with joy and pride.
He wasn’t there.
At home, I looked at those black, glistening high heels. I placed those shoes amongst the footgear that guarded the walls of my closet. Like this cluttered closet of faded Levi jeans, candy-colored T-shirts, and Sunday best outfits, my heart was jam-packed.
He wasn’t there for my first grade Dads’ Day or my first basketball game.
Somehow, despite 18 years of disappointments, I had thought those shoes represented the relationship my father and I would now build.
It’s funny. Gifts can trick us that way. He has always tricked me that way.
A Team of One
He let me have his basketball the summer before I started junior high school.
I looked at the round, inflated, brownish-orange ball with apprehension. “What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked. “I like to watch basketball on TV, but I don’t think I can play.”
“If you practice hard enough, you could try out for a team one day,” he said.
My father took the ball from me and ran his fingers across the faded, stenciled Spalding letters. He fixed his eyes on the ball as if he were calculating its circumference.
“Okay, Dad,” I said. “I’ll play since it’s so important to you.”
Every afternoon, I shot free-throws at the shaky, makeshift basketball goal my father made during one of his visits.
I practiced until the sun hid behind the pillows.
I practiced until I could no longer hear the bounce, bounce, bounce of the ball.
I practiced until the rope began to shrivel, like the moss hanging from the trees that surrounded the dirt-covered basketball court.
I practiced like he told me.
Every afternoon, I practiced without my father. I made the basketball team like he wanted.
I even won the Best Offensive Player of the Year Award. I wanted him to see Coach D. present it to me.
He wasn’t there.
I told myself that I was okay. It was enough for me just to wear the same jersey number my father wore in high school.
It’s ironic. He participated on a team in high school. He encouraged the development of his team members.
Why couldn’t he build good sportsmanship and commit to being on my team?
Why couldn’t he pick me as the Best Daughter on his team?
I didn’t want that basketball.
Standing Alone
On December 25, 1994, he gave me a silver charm bracelet adorned with a cross, a Bible, and praying hands.
“You can wear this to the father-daughter dance we’re goin’ to,” he said.
I got ready for the dance, dolled up in a velvet green, white-laced dress that Mom bought me.
Mom drove me to the dance and walked with me into the school gymnasium. “Your father will be here soon,” she said. “I’ll wait ‘til he gets here.”
I looked at the door, waiting to see if he was going to strut in.
He said he was coming. I watched the door every time it opened, wishing it was him.
I stood against the wall, listening to the giggles of the girls and the chuckles of the dads.
Mom couldn’t get me to sit down.
“I’ll stand up ‘til he gets here, Ma,” I said.
He said he was coming.
He didn’t show up.
I stood there until the little hand on the clock covered 9 and the big hand covered 12.
I stood there until the gymnasium had no more girls, no more dads. Just one little girl with a shiny bracelet.
No Room for One More
On May 25, 2005, Graduation Day, I looked in my closet at the collection of footgear stacked atop each other in boxes.
The round toe, patent leather, three-inch heels were placed in the corner. The basketball lay nestled beside a pair of Air Jordan’s. The sterling bracelet hid in the pink and purple heart-shaped jewelry box my father gave me.
I have no more room for gifts.
Williams is a student at Columbia College, majoring in English with an emphasis in business and professional writing.
