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Your Daughter, I Will Always Be


by Melissa Unger ('85)

For my Father, Sy Unger on the 10th Anniversary of his passing. I miss you as much today as the first day.

In the toy store, the stuffed animals were lined up on the shelves in neat rows. The more expensive, bigger ones, perched high; the cheaper tiny ones, within my reach. Once a month he would take me there. Reflecting on my behavior, scratching his chin in deep concentration, he would finally point dramatically to the chosen shelf, from which I would pick. The month I learned to jump into the pool without holding my nose, it was a high shelf; in response to my refusal to eat green beans, a low. But still. I always got something.

He wore a straw hat with a wide ribbon band. A shiny, black and red button, like a bull’s-eye, perched on its left side. Evenings after dinner, he'd put the hat on the table and rub the button, from underneath the hat would appear gum, candy, coins.

He delighted me.

When I got a bit older and boys would come to pick me up, sitting on the couch with a scotch in his right hand, he'd casually put out his cigarette on his tongue. Then he'd smile to take the fright out of them.

He showed me how he did it once. I was sitting on the bathroom floor, my knees tucked under my chin watching him shave. He took the butt from his mouth, leaned down and presented his curled tongue, pooled with a little spit, for my inspection.

He'd put ketchup on everything my mother cooked and it made her crazy.

We'd play Blindman's Bluff in the yard. He'd spin me and spin me. I ran straight into the pool once. He dove in after me and pulled me safely to solid ground; my brand new denim overalls, heavy and wet.

He helped me peel them off, told me not to cry and went inside to get a towel.

I stood there shivering on the grass, streaks of dark blue running down my legs.

Cold, but knowing he would be back soon.









Melissa Unger with her father Sy Unger
Melissa Unger with her father Sy Unger