A/N: I don't even know anymore. This took some weird turn from what I had originally intended and this is what we got. At any rate I have three finals and two shifts for work today so give me a thumbs up or down...or rip it to shreds and tell me about my many grammatical errors, any way you do it there will be improvement upon my day. I would give the obligatory enjoy at this point but I am still rather unsure myself that it is enjoyable. -
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It never feels like it is going to be the last time.
You don't go into things thinking that this will be the last time you will be able to brush the hair off his forehead and tease him about the haircut he seriously does need because he is too busy to slow down. You don't realize that your last words to someone could be something as stupid as drive safely and you don't know what your last hug could feel like.
You don't take into account that in two weeks you will
be clutching one of his old shirts for dear life because the scent of
him has finally vacated and you can't find anything to give you the
memory that you so desperately need to keep breathing in and out. You
don't understand right then how many nights you will spend locked in
the bathroom you share with your roommate secretly huffing his cologne
that you went out and bought for a sense of normalcy. What you didn't
know then was how many hours you would spend staring at the simple
piece of paper that holds his famed scrawl and how many moments would
be wasted trying to figure out what he would think of what you are
doing with your life. Most certainly you didn't recognize that his
death would impact you so profoundly.
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He wasn't around much as you can recall. At age four you didn't remember him though there are few things more important than learning how to tie your shoelaces so that they don't fall undone the instant you step out of the house or learning how to read so that you don't stumble over words anymore and can sound like the big girl you feel like you are. There are times that you hold dear to you heart and you know that he is your father, you just aren't exactly sure what that entails. Other children tell you that their daddies teach them how to play catch or give them horsy rides across their living rooms. None of that makes sense to you because you only see your "father" on Sunday nights when you are all assembled around the elegant mahogany dining room table.
There
are hushed words in your presence between the two and you simply assume
that grown ups are quiet during dinner because that is the only time
you really ever get to see your parental units interact. So at age four
you just watch as they sip the magic potion from their glasses and try
to act exactly as they do. You fold your hands in your lap as your
plates are removed and placed in front of you again. You watch with
wide eyes and detect the imbalance in the perfectly decorated room.
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At age eight you have figured that there is definitely something wrong with your family tree and the whole social set up but you are sure as hell not going to voice your opinion to anyone outside your huddled group of stuffed animals that lay strung out across your room. For some reason that you don't grasp yet, there is comfort in knowing that when you go into your room all twenty or so fictitious creatures will be there for you to talk to. You whisper to them after your nanny turns darkens the room (no one ever bothers speaking to you after dinner let alone tucking you in) and the warm glow of the night light in the corner provides that no one can see your tears but Snuffly your favorite light brown bear.
The other kids tease you because of your flaming hair and the need you have to be anti-social. Sitting huddled in the corner you feel the wind nip below your sweater and you hastily throw you bookmark in before heading back to the classroom early. You like reading, it is an amazing escape into a world you are only half certain is actually supposed to exist. Not everyone gets the happy ending.
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You asked once, in your preteen years, why in the world the individuals around you attempted to call themselves your family. You've seen enough through the years to assure your fears that people really are out there with fathers who care and mothers who at least pretend to know how to cook. Your question was met with a quick backhand and the stinging reminder that you should never bother with that particular thought again.
Mr. Snuffly, (you threw the Mr. in front of his name at about age ten because it at least made it sound slightly more grown up) is somehow the only true friend you have managed to let yourself have as of yet. Worried, simply because if you invite someone else into your hell they will start to point out all of the problems and somehow make life worse than it already is. Your gangly awkwardness and astute intellectual abilities have done nothing for your social life and you are thankful that there is at least something to blame when your mother questions your innate refusal to attend all social outings that aren't related to your mandatory extra curricular activities.
Your
father no longer bothers with Sunday night dinners and your mother no
longer makes any effort at hiding her numerous boyfriends. You are
supposed to be old enough to understand the implications that true love
was not the reason you were born and consequently given your father's
middle name after it was found there would be no male heir. Sometimes
you think, snuggled deep under your covers with a flashlight and an old
family photo that maybe, just maybe life would have been better for
everyone if you were a boy.
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You were once amazed by the fact that when you brought someone else into the equation of your home life that there was an effort made on your mother's part to seem perfect. She threw on the spread really thick. Talked to whatever her name was, that was only using you to get study notes out of, and made her believe that you were living the dream life. She showcased your many recital photos and equestrian poses like she was actually there taking the photo as opposed to in the bed of some strange man. All the while forgetting to mention that no one ever bothered to call the driver and the paid photographer ended up giving you a ride home more times than you care to count. She spoke with elegance, like she actually cared who you were and it was such a frightening experience that you never once did bring another soul into that house.
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He was diagnosed when you were 20. They gave him six months. He tortured you for two and half years. 30 months of agonizing and a rollercoaster of emotions. The terminal disease had restricted his movements and abilities and for the first time in your life he was a father. He cared about your GPA, where you were applying to med school at, what boys you were or weren't seeing, and shared stories of his life.
He pulled you into his arms and promised you the world that he denied you from the get go. He was strong then, at first, his stature unaffected by the blackening of his lungs. You weren't in med school yet but it didn't take the genius that you were to realize that it was all going to end soon. Out of sheer obligation you sat with him. You came home to visit on the weekends and chatted with him like he never did you wrong once. He told you how proud he was that you turned out the way you did despite their dismal approach to parenting and applauded your every achievement like he could remember them.
He lied and said he
remembered your first steps. He didn't. He was never there. Helga saw
your first steps, heard your first word, and was the first to notice
that you had a certain amount of food allergies. You let him lie. You
let him believe what he wanted. He made his own reality. No one was
going to correct the dying man in the corner.
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Six months came and passed. You attempted to celebrate your last Christmas with the man and it only ended in shattered glass and a broken ego storming out the door while your mother shouted obscenities to your wool coated back. But before the broken ornaments and hurt feelings there was a moment when he said that he loved you.
You were gathered around the large evergreen and immersed in the ever present holiday party. You had vacated the spacious rooms brimming to their capacities with drunkards in quest of the quiet and found yourself under the bright lights and sparkling star. He had beaten you there. You took a seat next to him and watched his gray slate eyes. You didn't get his unwavering eyes, you were stuck with your mother's blue orbs that dared to change shades with everything you wore. He spoke from the heart for the first time in your life and you couldn't help but let the tears trickle when he murmured the three words your heart and soul had been begging to hear.
You made quasi amends that fateful evening. He apologized, you apologized (though for what you are unsure) and there was a brief and fleeting moment where you believe that he was your father. There was a connection formed that night and maybe it was twenty years too late but you were scooping it up with all of the faith you could find and pouring into your aching core. You didn't know it then that you were just making the whole situation so much harder on yourself.
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His health somehow remained strong up until two weeks before his death. The fact that he was breathing (with the help of an annoyingly noisy oxygen machine) was completely mind boggling to everyone including the doctors. Gradual things could be noticed. The loss of weight, the sunken eyes and pale skin but he was still your father. Maybe more so this way than before. Walking with a cane seemed to humble him and he was appreciative when he actually got to see you.
You arrived
home by chance that afternoon. Stopping in to pick up a few more winter
clothes before heading out again to your apartment to cram for finals.
She was in a state of panic, your mother who used drugs when necessary
and at times when merely convenient was a wreck watching him sleep
peacefully in the hospital bed below his favorite window in the house.
You lead her from the room rapidly realizing that even though it hurt
like hell you were going to have to be the leader. You asked all the
mandatory questions and learned that he had "gone down" the day before
and had yet to wake up. You called the doctors, you sat in when they
said he had about a week and it would be an unpleasant one at that. You
were there making the funeral arrangements because you mother was too
busy pre-grieving to remember the answers to any of their questions and
you were the one who got shafted into taking all of the relatives calls
and knocks on the door. All you wanted was to spend his last few
delusional days in peace recounting somewhat better times and holding
his soft right hand.
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His death was quick in comparison to the disease that took him. He simply stopped breathing. His spirit left the night before and you could have sworn that you saw it glide from his warmth and into the darkness. It was peaceful, respectful even. You felt it then as you do now. He didn't deserve it.
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Now you're curled into your closet with Mr. Snuffly (who has a torn arm and a missing nose) crying your eyes out because for the first time in your life you actually miss your father and want him to come home. It was a cruel joke and an unduly hard lesson to learn. He was taken just as quickly as he was given to you and now you can't help but think that maybe you didn't cherish all the lasts enough. What you would give to have those lasts back.
Sitting in the middle of organic
chemistry you are suddenly struck by the thought that you have no idea
what the last thing he said to you was and then you are racing from the
room so you can not cry in front of forty of your peers. You hit the
bathroom and crumble to the ground in the semi privacy that metal
stalls provide and realize that you can't remember what in the world
his voice sounds…sounded like. The voice that used to yell but the same
one that whispered those cherished words a very long year ago. Then you
are borderline hysteric and gasping for air when you don't remember the
last thing you said to him and can't help but slap yourself for how
ridiculous this is all going to sound when you are forced to explain it
to whoever finds you first.
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You were in the middle of a study session when the thought dawned on you that you couldn't recall the last hug you gave him. Certainly there weren't many between the two of you but the tears are clinging to your eyelashes because you don't remember what those arms clasped around your back felt like. It is just common protocol among your friends to know that you periodically sprint from rooms without words because there is nothing to explain your dismal behavior. They probably rock, paper, scissors for whoever has to come and rescue you from yourself but in those moments you never give a damn who it was that lost.
There were many others. By now you have lost count of the classes you have left, the friends you have disappeared on, and the dates you have ditched without a care. You always rush home and do the same thing when you have collected yourself enough to be seen in public. Once you cried on a subway. It's New York, no one gave a damn but you still felt humiliated that you couldn't quell the sobs long enough to make it into your room and dash under the covers like you used to all those years ago.
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The frame sits atop your bookshelf. This is the one last you know. It is your last family photo and if it weren't a moment frozen in time you probably would have lost it in the wreckage too. The set up is simple enough. You wedged between your parents on the high-backed Victorian loveseat that was recently reupholstered because your mother had too much damn time on her hands and was so in love with a certain shade of pink that your hair clashes ridiculously. It is one of the few pictures you have where- a. you were all three present and, b. all actually looked happy.
Settling your shaking skeleton you slide underneath the ivory colored down comforter and prop up your cell phone to give light, not that you need it. You know the whole thing by heart. Sure hiding under the blankets was something you did in your younger days but as the minimal air begins to heat up around you and your back aches from being bent forward you feel comforted as if there were actual arms supporting your frame.
Sometimes you mutter words to his image. Tell him stupid things about how your day was going or how much you miss him, like talking to a picture will do you any good. Other times you just outline his face trying to recall what the soft wrinkled skin would feel like under your young fingertips. You trace your pointer finger through his hair like you did the day he passed and you never make it past those cold eyes before the tears spring out. At times you do both or all three. You talk to him like he hears you, you drag your fingers across his face and you cry your heart out. Some nights/mornings/afternoons it is only one of those because your constricting throat barely allows for air going in and out and your hands quiver too much to hold anything straight.
You count the days until a time will strike when talking to a photograph will finally seem as ludicrous as it feels, all the while deep down knowing that that time will never come. You have a box of his things. Old shirts, a tie, his favorite cd, and an old medical journal he was published in. Eventually this picture will end up in there. The box will accumulate dust and grow old in the back of your closet. It will be marked private and no one will ever question the demanding print and peer inside. The memories will fade as will the heartache of never knowing the lasts but the box will always be there as will the picture inside of it. A simple image that will always bring tears to your eyes no matter how many years have passed.
You don't realize it then but in about 16 years you will heave that box down from the closet and curse his name for never teaching you how the male species is supposed to treat you. You will pull it from its home on your wedding day, the so called best day of your life and on the day you throw your rings into the bay. You'll look at it periodically while you lose your sense of self in Seattle and try not to remark over how disappointed he would be in you. And finally you will repack it in its box when you decide that your soul can take no more pain and head to the land of sunny rays. The box will remain exactly the same, tattered, torn and beaten but it will always follow your travels with his memory. It's all you've got left.
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No
one ever thinks about saying, "I love you," as if it will be the last
time murmured among kindred spirits. You don't get to pick the lasts
and the lucky people are those who can recall what they are in the wake
of the disaster. You aren't one of those people. Not everyone gets the
happy ending.
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