I use to believe I hated Christmas most of all the dreaded lonesome holidays, as I imagined you waking up that summer morning with the early sun oozing hot warnings of the coming heat through the Queensland sky, small blue eyes glistening as you squealed and laughed, blonde hair bouncing with each giggling jump, with childish anticipation at the wrapped presents mounted below the plastic tree. But now, I realise it is Father's Day, whether it be in June or September, that drives the dagger home through my already shattered heart as I imagine scenes of what might have been. Your small gentle arms wrapped tightly around my throat, as you leap into my eager arms and yell out, "Daddy!" when I slowly open the door after a long tired day at work. You lying in your bed, smiling at playful dreams of doggies, lavender flowers, and koala bears, as I kneel down, softly brush the yellow strands of hair from your face, and lay my lips on your warm sweet forehead after a late night at the pub writing. You sitting in my lap still as a little girl could be, listening to me read you poetry, either my own, or by those whose footsteps I follow, including that sweet sad poem you were named for, or I would regale you with tales of knights and dragons, dwarves and elves, the heroic deeds of Fionn mac Cumhaill and Cu Chullainn, or my own travels and adventures in Tir na nOg and my years spent with the sidhe. Hearing your Australian voice whisper, "I love you, Daddy" as you caress the red fur on my face with your loving lips with a loud and decisive smack. I gaze at your pictures and my heart aches as I wonder, am I just an abstract figure in a hazy photograph, which you are told is your daddy? A strange American voice over the telephone telling you "I Love you, Jacinta"? A mere ghost at the edge of your tiny existence as formless as the morning mist? What am I to you? Know this, Jacinta, I will always love you and hold you tightly in my heart, and that although I may not be standing beside you or holding you tightly to my breast, softly singing, soothing your hurts and fears, that I will still be there. Slan go foill, a chuisle mo chroi. See you in my dreams.