If you ever wake up in the mirror of a bad dream.
It’s 4am on graduation day and you’re asleep in our room, with your sister, because of how many people are in the house. I woke up and your mom was gone, She was awake in the sunroom with the windows open, listening to the first of the birds. “It’s so quiet outside.” she said, “I was up before the birds even. There was no wind out there, no nothing. I imagined that I could wake up and she’d be 5 again, when we first moved here. That I’d go into her room and she’d need me, and want to spend time with me and do projects. I hope we did the right things by her Steven. I just want her to be so happy.”
And for a fraction of a second you can’t remember where you are-just open a window and follow your memories upstream, to the meadow in the mountain where we counted every falling star.
I remember when you humored me. We would sit in the hammock in Rutland, on Charlies Place, and look out past the lightly barbed wire fence that kept Charlie’s cows from visiting more often than they did. Down the hillside to the mountains just to the north and east. I remember back, and the days were always sunny and warm and clear. And you would lie on my stomach and I would rub your back and we would talk and not talk. I would suggest that you “pay attention and that life is good right now and that sometimes life gets harder” I should have just shut my fucking mouth and rubbed your back. But we counted clouds and later, when the stars would come out, those too. But we always rocked slowly in that thing. Partly because it was easy to fall out of, but also because slow was fine back then.
I believe the light that shines will shine on you forever, and though I can’t guarantee there’s nothing scary hiding under your bed.
I remember watching The Shining with you and your friends when you were about 8 or 9. Your mother wanted to kill me. I was so interested in turning you on to things I liked, that I didn’t consider the likelihood that there was at least a chance you weren’t ready for Scatman Crothers much less Jack Nicholson. We made popcorn, and had candy and likely ice cream, and I turned the lights off and you and your friends huddled on the couch and we had the sound on low because this wasn’t a scene your mother would warm to if she came downstairs. It barely held your attention and didn’t stay with you, or even scare you, in the least. I remember you and Olivia wondering when the scary part would start. “Was this a scary movie back when you watched scary movies a lot Dad?” Maybe this wasn’t the first time I connected to the idea that time was moving, but it stands out. I watched 3/4’s of the rest of it by myself with all of you asleep on the same couch. You, Dasha, and Olivia. I took a picture that I still have somewhere. From that point on Jack Torrence didn’t scare me much. He was just a guy trying to keep his family together. Also trying to kill them, but still.
I’m gonna stand guard like a postcard of a Golden Retriever, and never leave ’til I leave you with a sweet dream inside your head.
I remember reading books to you before you’d sleep, like any parent does. The same ones, something by Sandra Boynton at first. Moo, Baa, La La La!, Opposites, and certainly, Pajama Time, which I can still recite by line if you give me a start. I remember reading A Child’s Calendar by John Updike to the point where it was impossible to start a month without his words rolling around in my head. To this day, I remember, reading about April, “The blushing girlish world unfolds, each flower, leaf and blade of turf, small love notes sent from air to earth.” I read those lines to myself and I am, again, lying next to you, rubbing your back again, trying to help you nod off. We’d end each night with the two of us singing Ripple or Dire Wolf or Friend of the Devil. Got two reasons why I cry awake each lonely night, first one’s name is sweet Dehlia Dee and she’s my heart’s delight. You’d generally be asleep before the second verse, but I’d almost always lay there and finish.
I’m gonna watch you shine, gonna watch you grow, gonna paint a sign, so you’ll always know.
I remember your Mom and I saving up to rent a house for a week on Brandt lake in NY with a bunch of friends when you were little. We spent a week fishing and riding on Louie’s boat, and swatting flies. On our last night we drive down to SPAC to watch some iteration of what was left of the Dead, I think it was Furthur. I remember walking the lot before the show with you. You wanted a sticker that, instead of Hello Kitty, said Mellow Kitty and had the kitten holding a bong. I remember getting into the show, we sat on the lawn, and I watched you twirling around and dancing, and all of our friends taking turns dancing with you. Your mom and I were so happy to be there and to have you with us. They played Stagger Lee, and you sang from the top of your small lungs. Obviously I loved you a thousand times before that, and have record of at least saying so, but I still get a lump in my throat when that memory comes around. I’ve begged time to stop a thousand times since then too. Still no luck.
Trust your intuition, it’s just like going fishin-you cast your line and hope you get a bite.
I remember your first dance. It was at the Municipal Building in Newport and I was a chaperone. At this point of things, it still wasn’t supremely awful for this to be the case both because I was your ride, but also your wallet and they had candy and you like candy. I bought you a Kit Kat and you went to hang out with your 6th grade girlfriends and I made small talk with other fathers. I don’t remember what I said to them, but I remember watching you and being happy that you appeared pretty confident-especially in light of how nervous I was. It was impossible for me not to connect to this as an important moment-a girl’s first dance, but it was even more difficult for me to take my eyes off of you. I may have spoken to several people that night, but I didn’t spend much time actually looking at them. The dance only lasted 90 minutes or so, and I bought you a shareable sized pack of Rolo’s that we split on the way home. This was probably the last time a dance ended this way for either of us. It would always happen this way though; falling deeper in love with your daughter just when you’d think that couldn’t possibly happen.
But you don’t need to waste your time, worryin about the marketplace, trying to save the human race, struggling to survive, it’s as harsh as night.
I remember watching The Wild Thornberry’s movie with you In Rutland. It had been one of your favorite shows, chronicling the lives of Eliza Thornberry (who is granted the power to talk to animals by a Shaman, so long as she mentions it to no one) and her mom Marianne and father Nigel (voiced by Tim Curry), and it was now headed to the big screen. We got pizza at Ramuntos and headed to the Rutland 10-plex or something and got popcorn. At some point in the movie, 12-year old Eliza gets shipped to boarding school and has some tearful farewell with her Dad before she boards a plane. At this point, you’re unlikely aware that I cry at hardware store commercials and songs about summer ending, so you’re a little taken back when you see me welling up. You laugh when you notice. “Dad, you’re actually crying?” It’s dark so you’re not entirely sure until the huffing comes. I remember you holding my hand and then I may have had some kind of a joy blackout as I don’t remember much else. We left the theater and you said something like don’t worry Dad I’ll never leave you. I remember putting my sunglasses on as I got into the car.
As long as one and one is two, there could never be a father who loves his daughter more than I love you.
I am locked out of the hospital in St. Albans. I just left you in a wheelchair in a waiting room after wrecking your ACl in a junior year soccer match versus BFA under the lights. You were taken off the field in a stretcher, transported in a golf cart to the car after being diagnosed by their athletic trainer with a ‘definitely torn, it’s definitely a torn ACL, definitely torn, yup” and pointed in the direction of Northwestern Medical Center on Fairfield Street (these directions, in my brain, are seared). I went back to the car to look for your sandals and, given the apparent operating hours of this place, have been summarily locked out. I’m running around the building looking for a door, an open window, a chimney to drop into and I find some unlocked orderly entrance or something and make my way back to you. You are sitting in uniform. One sock rolled down, the other still holding a shinguard. Both cleats still on and tied. You have a little black mascara running down your face. Your hair is in a ponytail and held back with burgundy athletic tape. You keep saying how bad you know it is and I keep deferring to other potentials even though I know it isn’t great. It’s been a while since I’ve held your hand like this and for as awful as I feel for you and I can’t help but enjoy the seconds turn to minutes like this. You are hurt and I know the season is over for you but I also know you’re young and tough and resilient. So I hold your hand and tell you it’s going to be ok and, even though the last thing you want to hear right now, that I love you. And even though I do my best not to cry, I do-by myself, out by the orderly door. Then I come back in and we go home. I may not remember much else about that night, but I remember holding your hand. And I remember thinking that if all I can ever do is hold it, when you need it, I’m happy, I’ll pretty much always be happy with that.
I love you D.