Daddy

Still thinking about the Play-Doh set in the basement children's room

of the Seattle Mormon church building where I was ten or eleven

when I uncovered a set of scented Play-Doh(s). One of them was

"Dad Scent!" Or perhaps "Working Dad!" Or perhaps "Angry Cologne Dad!"

I cannot remember, it and pings absurdly against the mind to imagine

how to explain this. Dad flavor. Anyway: mostly I remember how it smelled

like sharp, scary cologne, like a dad's 99-cent body spray dressed up

to recall its Drakkar Noir cousins. It smelled somehow like loan forbearance

or a refinanced mortgage. It smelled like "I'll call you when I'm on my way

home from the office, honey!" It smelled like "having the boss over for dinner."

It smelled like "Pour me a drink." It smelled like sinking into an armchair

and snapping at the wife. It smelled like, that is all to say, the highly regarded

fantasy of the American working father, who is not a person but a Man,

who does not love but has a Wife, who fucks on a one-two beat

into the daily, onward, relentless future. O Our Dad In Heaven. Dear Heavenly

Daddy. Different from my own living father, who is so doubtful and tender

and silent in his moments, saying, "If I were an accountant..." Full of quiet anger

and anxiety behind the wheel of a car. Tensed like a handful of steak,

which he does not eat. "If I were a lawyer, if I were an accountant..."

I would pray this way, not knowing the character to whom I was reaching.

Dear Heavenly Father, Our Father In Heaven, but the name would wink at me

in its laughter. We would talk and my words would evaporate into fists full of

stars. Oh G-O-D, do I dare even say your name! Do I dare draw

your face, your essence. What do you smell like? Can I smell?

Eliza Campbell is a writer and activist living in Washington, D.C. Her essays and poetry have appeared in Popula, Rufous City Review, Barrow Street, and McSweeney's.