You were named Admiral WindWagon Smith
of the Wichita River Festival,
your large-brimmed hat and button-down coat

made you a king. You brought me tiger lilies,
my favorite, after my first performance on stage
as Charlie Brown's blonde-haired Lucy.
You called me princess. The night you left us

for her, Mom made me come home
from a sleepover to hear your story
from your lips. I never looked at you.

Our daughter dates were sweaty palms
and biting into tortilla chips while you talked
about the campouts we used to take at Cheney,
burning biscuits and swimming in that muddy lake.

I didn't cry when we moved away from you,
escaping to the Atlantic Ocean, where Mom
didn't need strawberry daiquiris to smile.

You came to my new city and asked me to forgive you.
I said I'd try. Four years later, you whispered
a prayer before walking me down the aisle
and my hands stopped shaking