Heartbeats and Crumpled Shirts
Running with him was as much a part of me as my bones or my heart. The day he died my heartbeat seemed to slow to a melody I didn't recognize.
I kept trying to find the tempo, the exact moment my inner conductor decided to signal a molto ritardando.
I couldn't do it.
I was too slow to rewind myself backward. I was stuck in slow motion, moving from room to room with dragged feet and crumpled shirts.
My body forgot what it felt like to hit the ground hard and confident, pushing against it to move forward. I was used to my heartbeat being synchronized to his when we would race towards the finish line. Now that he was gone, who was I going to run next to?
The couch became my coffin for a year. My eyes were constantly in motion, shifting from the television to our old cat that would stare out the window, wondering when he was going to come in from outside.
I would have to tell her to come away. I would try to shelter her under the blankets and hold her tight, but she didn't want to. She would jump out and run back to her place, waiting.
Her all-knowing eyes would look over at me - a slow blink, a deep breath- and return to stare longingly out the window. She was sad. She got thinner and thinner like the rest of us.
The only time I ventured out to the track we ran on was on foggy days. It matched perfectly with the haziness in my brain and the aches my bones made, as if I hadn't moved in 100 years.
Out there walking on the track, the grass was over-grown- another reminder that he wasn't here, another reminder that what we had with him was history.
My eyes searched the pasture for any type of apparition. Maybe he would whisper something to me, maybe he was right beside me walking along the path. Or maybe I was going crazy.
But the ground was never my friend. The ground was a support system that I abused time and time again without paying much attention to it, forgetting how much I needed it to move forward.
I hated myself for not telling him every day how thankful I was that he was my father. I hated that I didn't tell him how much I appreciated a man, who was not biologically related to me, taking an interest in my life and offering a shoulder to cry on or give advice when he knew I was ready for it.
But a father isn't always made of the same DNA. He is made of the same love and heartbeats. He is made of the drive to be there for every concert, every play, every dance, every heartbreak, every accomplishment, every night, every day, every moment.
Written: 3.27.17
I kept trying to find the tempo, the exact moment my inner conductor decided to signal a molto ritardando.
I couldn't do it.
I was too slow to rewind myself backward. I was stuck in slow motion, moving from room to room with dragged feet and crumpled shirts.
My body forgot what it felt like to hit the ground hard and confident, pushing against it to move forward. I was used to my heartbeat being synchronized to his when we would race towards the finish line. Now that he was gone, who was I going to run next to?
The couch became my coffin for a year. My eyes were constantly in motion, shifting from the television to our old cat that would stare out the window, wondering when he was going to come in from outside.
I would have to tell her to come away. I would try to shelter her under the blankets and hold her tight, but she didn't want to. She would jump out and run back to her place, waiting.
Her all-knowing eyes would look over at me - a slow blink, a deep breath- and return to stare longingly out the window. She was sad. She got thinner and thinner like the rest of us.
The only time I ventured out to the track we ran on was on foggy days. It matched perfectly with the haziness in my brain and the aches my bones made, as if I hadn't moved in 100 years.
Out there walking on the track, the grass was over-grown- another reminder that he wasn't here, another reminder that what we had with him was history.
My eyes searched the pasture for any type of apparition. Maybe he would whisper something to me, maybe he was right beside me walking along the path. Or maybe I was going crazy.
But the ground was never my friend. The ground was a support system that I abused time and time again without paying much attention to it, forgetting how much I needed it to move forward.
I hated myself for not telling him every day how thankful I was that he was my father. I hated that I didn't tell him how much I appreciated a man, who was not biologically related to me, taking an interest in my life and offering a shoulder to cry on or give advice when he knew I was ready for it.
But a father isn't always made of the same DNA. He is made of the same love and heartbeats. He is made of the drive to be there for every concert, every play, every dance, every heartbreak, every accomplishment, every night, every day, every moment.
Written: 3.27.17
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