I love hearing your ideas about things, Sybil. You are so creative. What a wonderful thing, it will keep your life interesting.
Thanks.
[…]
So, Sybil. When you think of your daddy these days, what do you think about?
Oh, lots of things.
Like what?
Plonking and hammering. And jokes. If you pulled his finger, his tongue came out.
Where do you think he is now? Do you wonder about that? Some kids do, when they lose a daddy or mommy.
Well…nobody really knows for sure.
True. But what about you? What’s your guess?
Well, his body is in the dirt. His name is on a stone. But the rest of him…
The rest of him is where?
[…]
I think he is waiting until I am old enough to have a baby.
Why?
Because then he will be that baby.
[…]
Where is your daddy waiting? Where’s he waiting until he can come back and be your baby?
He’s walking in a field. A field with grass. He’s in a field where good things are true.
[…]
What would you say to your daddy, if you could say anything to him right now, and he could hear you?
I miss you, Captain. I loveded you. I wish I could have known you when you were a baby. That’s all.
X
Tears or sweat—so many stories end in salt water. I had thought my grief would be unique, keeping me apart from others. But in some ways, I have only become more typical.
when I was a child things being hurt made me sorry
for them but it seemed the way men and women did
Some days are hard. Today, the light feels tentative. It retreats behind the houses in the late morning. It’s September again. The trees are still lush. The only sign of autumn is the cooling sunlight, which retains no warmth. I decide to dry the bed sheets outside while I still can. I hang them over the rail of the deck. Then I sit on the back steps and try to stand it, the impossible length of the day. A wind rises. I can hear it blow through the woods behind the house.
Other days have been OK, almost pleasant. Those days, I’ve listened to music, smoked a stale cigarette or two through the attic skylights. Those days, I have reached out, and lo and behold, a friend arrived, a good friend like Alison, holding an uncut pineapple or box wine. Those days, I have gotten a handle on something new. How to use a drill. How to redeem gas points. How to behave in a socially acceptable way at the bus stop. How to pad a résumé. I know, small victories. But these are what make those days good days.
But today is agony. It inches along.
I wonder, Is the slowness due to grief, or waiting? I am waiting for news.
I clean the fingerprints off the storm door. I empty the deck planters into the compost pile. When despair looms, I transcribe another poem. It doesn’t matter which poem. Any poem will do. I take out a fresh sheet of paper. I flatten the book against the kitchen table. The scratching of the pencil calms me. The way the sharp tip of the pencil rounds down until it disappears. I copy all the lines in my own hand.