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Suggested Listening: "Soft Shock" - Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Take Your Time

~Sons and Fathers~

I woke up on the morning of my nineteenth birthday, feeling like I was on good terms with the world. Perhaps the copious amounts of Christmas cheer my mother was splattering everywhere was beginning to catch.

That's the thing about having your birthday in the same month as a major holiday: in my family, you have to run the gauntlet of decorating every square inch of the house, attending banal social gatherings, stuffing your face with the million dishes my mother prepares, plus somehow finding the energy to enjoy the fuss that everyone makes over the simple event of you turning one year older. My birthday is anything but lost in the shuffle; in fact, my mother would probably make a bigger deal of it if I let her. Of course, I still let her go to town on making my chocolate birthday cake. I can't take away all her fun.

This year's decorating extravaganza did not disappoint. First of all, Nicolai and I spent a whole afternoon setting up the displays on the lawn and stringing up the outdoor lights while our dad supervised (Dad still seemed exhausted, so Nicolai and I refused to let him do any of the physical labour). My sisters came along to pick out the tree at the lot, and we ended up bringing back this towering, giant thing that – unwieldy though it was – looked majestic in our home's front window. Hours were spent decorating the tree, as each ornament merited a comment ("I still don't understand why Mihael's 'baby's first Christmas' ornament is an angel," said my jealous sister, Miranda). Arguments erupted. Laughs were had. Even Jazz was in on the fun, since Rosette tied bells on his collar so that he would jingle with every flouncing movement. It turned out that this was a very helpful warning for when he was attempting to climb the tree – which happened several times a day.

It was pandemonium. It was a very typical holiday season at our house.

In other ways, this Christmas would be special. I got the warm fuzzies when I thought that this would be the first Christmas that Matt and I were dating. Though, I made it very clear to him that I didn't want him overspending for my birthday and Christmas. I told him I would lead by frugal example and knit him an ugly Christmas sweater. He laughed, but I don't think he paid my lecture any mind. In truth, the gift I'd gotten for him was both a sweater and store-bought; it was a V-neck in a dark colour that I thought would bring out the fiery highlights in his hair. As for what Matt had planned, I had no clue, and he wasn't dropping any hints, either.

Speaking of Matt, he was recovering very well from his concussion. He was still foggy about the details of that night, however. We never did talk about how I blamed myself for what had happened, and I preferred it that way. It hurt too much. Though, something good did end up coming out of it. Matt decided to quit his job at the warehouse and got hired on at a store specializing in selling and repairing computers. He told me that he'd talked to Watari about his options for school. It's sad that it took getting whacked in the head to give him the courage to go after his dreams, but I guess it's what he needed.

If I was being honest with myself, I felt slightly envious.

My writing had gone by the wayside the past while – that is, except for my journaling; I can't go without my daily prescription. And I desperately needed it. My dad was cutting back on his involvement in managing the store just as orders started pouring in. Work had never been busier. As I juggled ordering stock, helping customers, and training the new employee, I heard a tune running through my head incessantly: "'Tis the season to go crazy… Fa la la la la la – Shoot me now!"

But today was my birthday. I would endure for the sake of chocolate cake awaiting me at home, if for nothing else.

When closing time rolled around, I got a text from Matt, telling me he would have to be late for supper, but promising that he would still come. I was in the middle of facing displays, so I only sent him a brief message back. I'd hit my stride several hours earlier, and nothing could break my concentration. The sooner the store was tidied, the sooner we could all head home.

Awhile later, when all the tasks in the storefront were finished and the rest of the staff had gone home, I brought the binder of orders into my dad's workshop in the back. Near the door, shelves of boxes contained repaired garments and custom items awaiting pickup. Works in progress were laid out on the tables; the number of them was a testament to the busyness of this time of year. I found my dad in the office at the very back. As I walked over the threshold, the smoke hit me like a punch in the face.

Through my coughs, I managed, "You're smoking again?" My dad had only rarely indulged in the habit throughout the years. The only time that I remembered him smoking regularly was when I was just a child. When he'd quit this last time, it had been for five years.

He hummed, not taking his eyes off of the spreadsheet he was filling out. For my sake, he at least stubbed out the cigarette in the close-to-brimming ash tray. "It's been stressful," he responded. "Back's been killing me, too."

"Nicolai can crack it for you tonight; unfortunately, I'm your short son." We chuckled.

I looked over his shoulder and saw that he was juggling the family's finances. There was a lot more red than I was used to seeing.

I cleared my throat. "I'll just leave these orders with you." I set the binder on the desk beside him, and then I went over to the safe to stash today's deposit.

As I finished resetting the safe's alarm, I heard a crash behind me. Upon whirling around, I saw that my dad's chair had rolled back into the filing cabinet, and he had slumped to the floor. I couldn't remember running over to him; I was just all of a sudden by his side. His face was terribly grey and his mouth was white as I helped him sit up.

"My back fucking hurts," he groaned. I had never heard my dad swear in my life. "And my arm won't stop throbbing."

The phone was in my hand. How did it get there? A calm, pleasant voice interrupted the chaos: "9-1-1. What's your emergency?"

The answer was on my tongue without hesitation, and I wondered how I hadn't seen the signs before.

"My father is having a heart attack."

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

When I was a little boy, there were times that I would get so upset that my sobs would turn into hiccups. Fear would set in as I realized I couldn't breathe. During one such time, my father wrapped his arms around me and held me against his chest. He didn't say a word; he just breathed slowly in and out, letting me listen to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

Within moments, my crying had stopped.

I sniffed and rubbed at my eyes. "Why does that happen? I don't like it."

He turned me around on his lap and looked me in the eye. "You just feel things more strongly than other people, Mihael. But you are strong. When you grow older, you'll learn your strength, and you'll learn to work with your emotions instead of letting them overcome you."

I hit my forehead softly against his chest. "I don't want to be different," I whispered.

"But you are." He gently pushed my shoulders until he could see my face again. "If I were to feel things as strongly as you do, my heart would burst. It is a strength, Mihael."

It didn't seem like it to me back then, and it still doesn't now.