Pass the Tonic, Please.

This began last night..this unexpected feeling, crept in like a thick fog…an ugly brew of sadness and regret…a touch of resentment and some very deep, twisted ache to top it all off. Funny, how you don’t see these things coming, not until its too late and they’ve got you by the shoulders and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze they do, until your shell is battered and your spine abandons you, so U have to sit it out with your eyes closed too tightly, ride it out like a really bad trip and find a small corner of sanctuary in the corner of an old friendly solitide, familar regardless of how long its been since you last met.

This…is this all about someone that hasn’t existed in my world since I was small? Could I REALLY be sad because I can’t remember my father’s voice? His scent is lost to me too…though I remember watching him sleep once when I was visiting-long after he’d stopped being my father and became a bearded stranger in the funny fedora living in the ‘big, big city’…While I watched him, searching his face for some recollection of the man that was my personal Santa when I was three, something much older inside of me had the foresight to capture the scent of him then…some crummy-smelling cologne that appeared as foreign to me as he himself had become and all I could think while I watched him sleep was ” You are not my father, you are no longer my Daddy. You don’t smell like Daddy and you don’t even look like him very much anymore”(except those eyes he handed down to me, so that I’m forced to see him each time I’m brave enough to look into a cursed mirror) And  for some lengthy period of time I watched him sleeping, this stranger with his strong scent and sorrowful face, and I could think of nothing but the quiet room and  the sounds of a city I would eventually fall asleep in myself so many years after.

So, last night brought not only a broken PC monitor, that very quietly died without so much as a sigh, but also this heavy ache for him…Why? Why now? He’s gone-long gone, and even if he were here, how would I feel? Would I look at him as that God-like Santa, larger than life in his khaki coat and long beard, or would he only be the stranger I watched over, searching for something familiar, something relative, as he slept?

I wonder about finding his grave, screaming at him, pounding the earth with my fists and then falling asleep upon him, maybe as some fix for the nightmares that make me afraid to give up and fall asleep every single day-causing my days to become 48 hour days and even then going to sleep with a knotted stomach…I wonder what his last thoughts were, when he last thought of me. He told me once, the only time I saw him after the afternoon I’d watched him sleep, that I had been the ideal child…never needed scolding, never did a single ‘bad thing’…which I think makes it even harder to comprehend why he slipped out of my life so easily…was I too ideal to be looked after? If I would have misbehaved a bit more, would he have stayed in my world? 

NO, put your pencil down Dr. Freud, I’m done rambling, now.



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