Atlantic

Before my father lost his mind… I loved him. I remember his arms.  Biceps that curled like Zeus fixing lightning bolts to a big world that little girls often get lost in. So, look closely. If you look closely enough, he had angels tap dancing between the creases in his fingers, and ballerinas leaping across the desert in his palms and hair that sometimes doubled as a wind compass with an orchestra in his throat that Beethoven’d on his lips, I swear. I thought my father was god. But memory tells me that one day when I was young, and my family was on vacation, my father and I decided to walk against the shore of the Atlantic ocean. So he held my hand. And stood five feet above me like a man single-handily beating up all the sea monsters that lurked in the dark waters before they ever got a chance to bite his little girl with long hair and little toes. We made our footprints on the wet part of sand. That section of the world where every movement, and every mark, and every memory, gets erased by the restlessness of the waves. I remember that day I told my father that SOMETIMES I get afraid of the dark. He looked down at his feet gripped my hand a little tighter, and said “Whenever you get afraid, whenever you get afraid, stare at the moon. Know that God is sitting behind it, protecting you, and that when you were born, he matched you with one of his angels and she has wings, and that is your guardian. If anything ever happens to you, she will fly back to god, tell him that and all the other angels, that you need help. And then heaven… heaven will come down and save you from whatever trouble you may be in. That way, the monsters you’re afraid of, will never get a chance to bite you.” So sometimes, when I was young, I would lay in bed, waiting for sleep to come with the florescent light above me, beaming with full force, my mother would come turn it off, so we could save money on the electric bill, and I’d get scared again, so I shuffled to the edge of my bed, stare out my window, look at the moon, remember what daddy told me, take out the seashell I stole from the ocean, put it up to my ear and… listen… to that section of the world where every movement, and every mark, and every memory, gets erased by the restlessness of the waves. And so my little punk-ass would finally go to sleep. But I’ve never seen the ocean the same way since. And now, I know that monsters don’t live there. And these days, there’s no more seashells for children to steal. And I’ve learned that the moon controls the tides, so I don’t blame the water for having ADHD anymore. And I haven’t seen my father the same way since, either. Because I saw the ocean in him once. That day when he said goodbye. When he opened my bedroom door, with his whole life packed into green and black cases. Gave me the kind of hug that says “I’m sorry” and left in a taxi. When he left, I closed the door again, and threw my headphones back on. But no one, no one could ever ignore the ocean, what they see. When I saw the Atlantic pull itself into his eyes, when the first day I saw him cry was the last day I loved him. On that day, he wasn’t God anymore. And there were no more angels on his fingers. No more Beethovening on his lips. The day he said goodbye was the last time I ever thought that waves are beautiful. They are restless, and confused, and they leave before they ever learn how to stay, so he left. The moon went with him, and the ocean followed her like a dumb dog on a leash, and I was left all alone in the big world. A little girl with long hair, and little toes. And I have a bad sense of direction sometimes, so I get lost in the crumbling sand of a life, where every movement, and every mark, and every memory, gets erased by the restlessness of the waves. And I’m still afraid of the dark, but I hate the moon these days, because her craters remind me of the absence of his face. Do you have any idea how scary the dark can be when your father’s biceps are not there to curl your face back to the sun? I couldn’t help but think “Daddy… did you always know you were going to leave me one day? Did you tell me to stare at the moon so that I could learn to be as lonely as she is, in this big, dim lit sky of mine?” I’m still afraid of the dark. And I still sleep with the lights on, sometimes. “So daddy… if you ever get scared of coming back home… don’t hesitate to stare at the moon. You will find a lonely girl, with long hair, and little toes, staring back at you. Follow the seashells and the sky. They will teach you how to stay, daddy. And you can hold my hand, so that we can start making foot prints in the sand again. Because before you waved goodbye, before you lost your mind, I swear… I loved you.”