jdp3233
11-27-2009, 01:30 AM
Paradise
I wake up to a splitting headache. The sun bursts through my eyes like a geyser bursting to the surface. I shield my eyes and strain to stand. When my sight adjusts, I see nothing but ocean blue.
I turn in two full circles before realizing that I am, indeed, in the middle of nowhere. Worse yet, I am in the middle of a nowhere that looks the same for miles, and miles, and miles. The sea is not known for its changing landscape to the naked eye.
The boat I am on is small, barely enough room for me, and its sail is worn and ragged. It flops in the air like dead fur. It creaks against the ocean surface with every weak wave that passes.
“Hello!” It echoes through the air and I realize how ridiculous yelling for help is. I do it again. “Hello!”
No one. Only the wind across my face, the clouds overlooking my confusion, and the water drifting slowly, like a gigantic blue blanket.
*
“Are you excited?”
“Yes.”
“You are?”
“Yes.”
“Well, good.” I pat him on the head and run a hand over his stubble. “You’re going to be the best sailor to ever come out of Maine, I promise you that much.”
He giggles. “Sure, Dad.”
“I’m serious.”
“Okay.” He giggles again and jumps in the boat, rocking it to and fro.
“Be careful,” I say.
“Okay, Dad.”
He is nine years old. His body is frail, weak, thin. With every step he takes I fear the worst. I have learned to fear the worst. The worst is the only.
“How’s your mom?” I ask.
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“You know I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Explaining the intricacies of divorce to a nine year old doesn’t come with a handbook.
“Because. That’s just the way it is.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
I smile at him. “You’re wise beyond your years.”
“Does wise mean smart?”
“Pretty much, but it’s more than that.”
“How?”
I board the vessel and raise the mainsail up the mast. “Being wise is better than being smart.”
“How come?”
“Being wise is knowing how to make the right decisions all the time. It’s like street smarts.”
“Street smarts? Knowing about the streets?”
“Sort of.”
“Like what they’re made out of?”
“No, no. Street smarts. Like knowing how to handle people.”
“And I have street smarts, Dad?”
“If not now, you will.”
“And I’ll be a sailor, right?”
“The best sailor to come out of Maine.”
“How about the world?”
I put my hand on his head. The feeling of that tender flesh makes me want to cry. “Of course. The world.”
*
The sail takes me west, or what I think is west, although this part of the world, this uncharted part of the world, seems to have no direction. I stare out into nothing and try to remember the last thing that happened to me.
*
“Dad, how come you moved out?”
The wind picks up the sails and sends us out to sea.
“Have you asked your mother that?” I say.
“No.”
“Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“You don’t need to ask her questions like that. She is under a lot of stress.”
“Why?”
“Several reasons.”
“Is it because of me?”
“Why would it be because of you?” I ask.
“Because I’m sick.”
“It’s not because of you.”
“Sometimes I hear her crying,” he says. “I wonder if she’s crying because you moved out.”
“I don’t think so, buddy.”
“Then why does she cry?”
“The same reasons I cry.”
He puts his arms in the air and lets the wind run through them. “You cry?”
“All the time.”
“But you’re a guy.”
“Guys can cry, too.”
“Without being called pansies?”
“Where did you learn that word?”
“From Stephen.”
“Who is Stephen?”
“A kid at the hospital.”
“And he called you a pansy?”
“No.” He puts his arms down as if he knows he is about to be in trouble. “He called another kid a pansy and I asked him what it meant.”
“Well, don’t call people pansies, okay?”
“Okay.” He puts his arms up again. A switch in the conversation has given him permission to enjoy the moment. “So, why do you cry?”
“Same reasons as your mom.”
“Because you miss her?”
“Sometimes.”
“And it’s not because of me? Because I’m sick?”
I’ve never been good at facing the person when I’m lying to them. “No, buddy, of course not.” I turn to the front of the boat.
“Good,” he says. “I wouldn’t want to make you and Mommy cry.”
*
Where am I? Who am I?
*
She rolls over and rests her head on her hand. “What did we do to deserve this?”
“We don’t deserve it.”
“Then why did it happen?”
“Sometimes things just happen.”
“And you can live with that?”
“Not exactly. But we have to.”
I put my hand on her face and bring it towards mine. I kiss her trembling lips.
“What can we do?” she asks.
“Love him as much as we can. Pour so much love onto him that he can’t handle it.”
*
Up ahead, covered in a red fog, I can see the outlines of a mountain and the mouth of a cave. As the boat splits the fog, it is clear to me that steering away from this mouth is useless. It will swallow me whole.
*
I sit on the edge of his bed and tuck the sheets around him.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Is there a God?”
“You’re curious?”
“Curious?”
“You wonder?”
“Yes. That’s why I asked.”
“I’m surprised. Nine year olds usually don’t ask such deep questions.”
“What do you think?”
“I think there’s something out there, watching over us, listening to our prayers, our pleads, our hopes, our dreams. That’s why those things come true sometimes.”
“Because God is listening?”
“Or whoever, yes.”
“What do you pray about?”
“Lots of things.”
“Me too,” he says. “And I think they’ll come true.”
“What do you pray about?” I ask.
“I pray that your prayers will come true.”
“And you think that will help?”
“I know it will.”
I kiss his forehead. “I love you, buddy.”
“I love you, Dad.”
I stand from the bed and go to the doorway.
“…and Dad? One more question?”
“What’s up, buddy?”
“What are you going to get me for my birthday?”
I laugh. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
“I know. But what can I get?”
“Anything you want.”
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
*
Orange birds fly around the boat, circling like predators, and although the scene is effortless, it is the most magnificent scene in the history of such.
*
I wake up to him jumping on my side of the bed.
“Shhhh,” I say, “you’re going to wake your mom.”
“Come downstairs.”
“Do you want breakfast?”
He shakes his head. “Come downstairs.”
I pull on pajama pants and follow him to the kitchen. He picks a single sheet from the table and holds it out to me. Flowers border the painting. In blue and red scrawl are the words: #1 Dad.
“I made one for Mom, too.”
I take the painting. “Wow. How long did it take you to do this?”
“All night. I didn’t sleep.”
“Not a wink?”
“Nope.”
“You know you need to sleep, right? It’s not good for you.”
“You’re not mad, are you?”
I wrap my arms around him. “No way, buddy. Thank you.”
*
A blue night lurches forward through the fog and extends its hand to me. It lets me know it will not take me unless I allow it. I know I must.
*
I’m in the office at work, a bottle of cognac on the table, his picture in a glass portrait, my tears falling on his face, on his body. I take a drink and let the liquor burn the uncertainty away.
“You asked me,” I cry to the picture. “You asked me what I pray about.” I take another drink and let stray liquid run down my chin, my throat. “I pray that you stay. I pray that I can take your place.”
I drop the picture and, through a blurry sheet of intoxication, watch it shatter on the floor.
*
The blue night leads me deep into the cave. The boat hits shore and I get off. A single spotlight shines on an object in the middle of the dark room.
The closer I get to the object, the weaker my knees become. They buckle and I stumble over loose pebbles. I fall to the ground and scoop the object from the dirt.
A painting. #1 Dad.
Something extra, added at the bottom of the picture: Thank You.
I press the picture against my breast.
“Thank you,” I say to the empty space, the empty space filled with something more than all the worries of the world.
I can feel myself fade into the blue night.
*
He will grow. He will experience. And he will be the best sailor to ever come out of Maine.
No, the world.
I wake up to a splitting headache. The sun bursts through my eyes like a geyser bursting to the surface. I shield my eyes and strain to stand. When my sight adjusts, I see nothing but ocean blue.
I turn in two full circles before realizing that I am, indeed, in the middle of nowhere. Worse yet, I am in the middle of a nowhere that looks the same for miles, and miles, and miles. The sea is not known for its changing landscape to the naked eye.
The boat I am on is small, barely enough room for me, and its sail is worn and ragged. It flops in the air like dead fur. It creaks against the ocean surface with every weak wave that passes.
“Hello!” It echoes through the air and I realize how ridiculous yelling for help is. I do it again. “Hello!”
No one. Only the wind across my face, the clouds overlooking my confusion, and the water drifting slowly, like a gigantic blue blanket.
*
“Are you excited?”
“Yes.”
“You are?”
“Yes.”
“Well, good.” I pat him on the head and run a hand over his stubble. “You’re going to be the best sailor to ever come out of Maine, I promise you that much.”
He giggles. “Sure, Dad.”
“I’m serious.”
“Okay.” He giggles again and jumps in the boat, rocking it to and fro.
“Be careful,” I say.
“Okay, Dad.”
He is nine years old. His body is frail, weak, thin. With every step he takes I fear the worst. I have learned to fear the worst. The worst is the only.
“How’s your mom?” I ask.
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“You know I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Explaining the intricacies of divorce to a nine year old doesn’t come with a handbook.
“Because. That’s just the way it is.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
I smile at him. “You’re wise beyond your years.”
“Does wise mean smart?”
“Pretty much, but it’s more than that.”
“How?”
I board the vessel and raise the mainsail up the mast. “Being wise is better than being smart.”
“How come?”
“Being wise is knowing how to make the right decisions all the time. It’s like street smarts.”
“Street smarts? Knowing about the streets?”
“Sort of.”
“Like what they’re made out of?”
“No, no. Street smarts. Like knowing how to handle people.”
“And I have street smarts, Dad?”
“If not now, you will.”
“And I’ll be a sailor, right?”
“The best sailor to come out of Maine.”
“How about the world?”
I put my hand on his head. The feeling of that tender flesh makes me want to cry. “Of course. The world.”
*
The sail takes me west, or what I think is west, although this part of the world, this uncharted part of the world, seems to have no direction. I stare out into nothing and try to remember the last thing that happened to me.
*
“Dad, how come you moved out?”
The wind picks up the sails and sends us out to sea.
“Have you asked your mother that?” I say.
“No.”
“Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“You don’t need to ask her questions like that. She is under a lot of stress.”
“Why?”
“Several reasons.”
“Is it because of me?”
“Why would it be because of you?” I ask.
“Because I’m sick.”
“It’s not because of you.”
“Sometimes I hear her crying,” he says. “I wonder if she’s crying because you moved out.”
“I don’t think so, buddy.”
“Then why does she cry?”
“The same reasons I cry.”
He puts his arms in the air and lets the wind run through them. “You cry?”
“All the time.”
“But you’re a guy.”
“Guys can cry, too.”
“Without being called pansies?”
“Where did you learn that word?”
“From Stephen.”
“Who is Stephen?”
“A kid at the hospital.”
“And he called you a pansy?”
“No.” He puts his arms down as if he knows he is about to be in trouble. “He called another kid a pansy and I asked him what it meant.”
“Well, don’t call people pansies, okay?”
“Okay.” He puts his arms up again. A switch in the conversation has given him permission to enjoy the moment. “So, why do you cry?”
“Same reasons as your mom.”
“Because you miss her?”
“Sometimes.”
“And it’s not because of me? Because I’m sick?”
I’ve never been good at facing the person when I’m lying to them. “No, buddy, of course not.” I turn to the front of the boat.
“Good,” he says. “I wouldn’t want to make you and Mommy cry.”
*
Where am I? Who am I?
*
She rolls over and rests her head on her hand. “What did we do to deserve this?”
“We don’t deserve it.”
“Then why did it happen?”
“Sometimes things just happen.”
“And you can live with that?”
“Not exactly. But we have to.”
I put my hand on her face and bring it towards mine. I kiss her trembling lips.
“What can we do?” she asks.
“Love him as much as we can. Pour so much love onto him that he can’t handle it.”
*
Up ahead, covered in a red fog, I can see the outlines of a mountain and the mouth of a cave. As the boat splits the fog, it is clear to me that steering away from this mouth is useless. It will swallow me whole.
*
I sit on the edge of his bed and tuck the sheets around him.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Is there a God?”
“You’re curious?”
“Curious?”
“You wonder?”
“Yes. That’s why I asked.”
“I’m surprised. Nine year olds usually don’t ask such deep questions.”
“What do you think?”
“I think there’s something out there, watching over us, listening to our prayers, our pleads, our hopes, our dreams. That’s why those things come true sometimes.”
“Because God is listening?”
“Or whoever, yes.”
“What do you pray about?”
“Lots of things.”
“Me too,” he says. “And I think they’ll come true.”
“What do you pray about?” I ask.
“I pray that your prayers will come true.”
“And you think that will help?”
“I know it will.”
I kiss his forehead. “I love you, buddy.”
“I love you, Dad.”
I stand from the bed and go to the doorway.
“…and Dad? One more question?”
“What’s up, buddy?”
“What are you going to get me for my birthday?”
I laugh. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
“I know. But what can I get?”
“Anything you want.”
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
*
Orange birds fly around the boat, circling like predators, and although the scene is effortless, it is the most magnificent scene in the history of such.
*
I wake up to him jumping on my side of the bed.
“Shhhh,” I say, “you’re going to wake your mom.”
“Come downstairs.”
“Do you want breakfast?”
He shakes his head. “Come downstairs.”
I pull on pajama pants and follow him to the kitchen. He picks a single sheet from the table and holds it out to me. Flowers border the painting. In blue and red scrawl are the words: #1 Dad.
“I made one for Mom, too.”
I take the painting. “Wow. How long did it take you to do this?”
“All night. I didn’t sleep.”
“Not a wink?”
“Nope.”
“You know you need to sleep, right? It’s not good for you.”
“You’re not mad, are you?”
I wrap my arms around him. “No way, buddy. Thank you.”
*
A blue night lurches forward through the fog and extends its hand to me. It lets me know it will not take me unless I allow it. I know I must.
*
I’m in the office at work, a bottle of cognac on the table, his picture in a glass portrait, my tears falling on his face, on his body. I take a drink and let the liquor burn the uncertainty away.
“You asked me,” I cry to the picture. “You asked me what I pray about.” I take another drink and let stray liquid run down my chin, my throat. “I pray that you stay. I pray that I can take your place.”
I drop the picture and, through a blurry sheet of intoxication, watch it shatter on the floor.
*
The blue night leads me deep into the cave. The boat hits shore and I get off. A single spotlight shines on an object in the middle of the dark room.
The closer I get to the object, the weaker my knees become. They buckle and I stumble over loose pebbles. I fall to the ground and scoop the object from the dirt.
A painting. #1 Dad.
Something extra, added at the bottom of the picture: Thank You.
I press the picture against my breast.
“Thank you,” I say to the empty space, the empty space filled with something more than all the worries of the world.
I can feel myself fade into the blue night.
*
He will grow. He will experience. And he will be the best sailor to ever come out of Maine.
No, the world.