A Cup Filled with Love

Maddi Walton

I like that when I first meet someone, and they mention my parents, not knowing anything about them, that my dad is alive for that moment. 

He’s a living, breathing person again. His obituary doesn’t exist; the memories of his funeral suddenly dissipate, like the last three years haven’t been tormenting me with his empty place in my mind.

In their brain, whoever it is I’m talking to, they see me as having a full set of parents, a glass full. 

That glass is full to the brim, using up every last bit of space to fill with memories of love and fulfillment. Filled with not missing him but having him there to watch the sunrise and eat donuts with, to take me to Build-A-bear Workshop for the eighth time, his face lighting up with joy I didn’t get to see very often when he played his drums and we listened to Paramore or Rascal Flatts. 

I let my dad take a few breaths, take up as much space as he can in that glass, before I let him go again as I gently correct them.

Before my hand is forced to turn over, to pour half of it out, sweeping him out along with it, leaving just my mom and me inside. The memories of her and my stepdad filling in the gaps my dad left long before he left this earth, of us picking up a bunch of pieces of a broken family and making them fit, and my mom picking up the phone that night, pouring out half of my glass for the first time. I wasn’t ready for it. 

So when this happens, I let them down easily as I tell them the truth.

“I lost my dad in 2019.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

Lost, as if I can find him. 

As if he’ll be found wandering the streets of Springfield, Decatur, or even Arizona.

As if he can make up for the years I didn’t have before his death. I’m tired of seeing everyone with their full glasses, of not having to live every day through this amount of pain, of not having the memories, the nightmares, the hours of therapy to start to mend what’s been taken from me and broken and poured out.

One day I can fill up my cup even more, finding more and more people I love and who love me, to fill the gaps with more memories, more love. That day hasn’t come yet, and I’m not sure it will, but I have to keep moving, keep hoping, keep loving.

But until then, I’m just a half-empty glass.

A b o u t

Madison Walton is a romance-reading fiction writer who moonlights as a poet. She was born and raised in Decatur, IL. She’s a current senior at Eastern Illinois University studying Creative and Professional Writing. When she’s not reading and writing, she’s spending time watching Netflix with friends or joking around with her family. This is her first time publishing a creative work, and hopefully will not be the last.