I am fifteen years old, going on sixteen, and my father calls me chickadee.
I do not know why—I am not chipper like one at five in the morning, nor do I
have the required vocals down.
But yet whenever he sees me, it is always, “There’s my chickadee.”
And I am not saying I don’t like it.
No, I do. I quite love it, actually.
It makes me think that, at least to him, I am like a bird:
Joyous, lighthearted, free.
It lets me know that he loves me, and I love that.
It may not be the coolest thing, and most people my age
may not like to be called such a name;
I suspect it falls on the list of, “babycakes” and “punkin-pie,”
but I do not care.
Yes, I am fifteen years old, going on sixteen, and my father calls me chickadee.