Wednesday, May 5, 2004

Wilt, Cont.

"Wilt
II
“Here it is. Right here. Isn’t it nice, honey?”
“What is it, daddy?”
“It’s a tombstone. It marks where mommy’s buried.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. I’m just going to set the flowers right here.”
“They’re red flowers, daddy! Just like the ones mommy first gave you.”
“Yeah. Except these ones aren’t wilted. There we go. Now doesn’t it look nicer, with the flowers there?”
“Yes daddy.”
“I can see her face just now. I can touch it. . .but I can’t.”
“Daddy, don’t cry.”
“I’ll try not to. Her face was so pretty though, honey. She had black hair—like you, she. . . had those eyes—small, oval, and beautiful; she had a petite face. You look so much like her.”
“I know, daddy. I know how much she means to you.”
“Yeah. Don’t worry. It’s OK.”
“Why did mommy have to wilt, daddy?”
”I don’t know. You never know. Why do you think so?”
“I don’t know, daddy. But I don’t think it’s fair.”
“A lot of things aren’t fair. But, as you told me last night, I should be glad. Glad I had the times I did with her. Glad I have you.”
“I’m glad I have you.”
“Daddy is too. I hope mommy’s glad, too, wherever she is.”
“And daddy, where do you think she is? Where do you go once you wilt?”
“I don’t know. No one does. Some try to guess where you go, but no one knows.”
“Oh. I’m sure she’s at a better place, daddy.”
“You’d hope so. But sometimes you wonder what it’d be like if she was here. . .or daddy had wilted instead.”
“You shouldn’t think that, daddy. I like my daddy the way he is. Even if I don’t have my mommy.”
“Yeah, I know. But grown-ups are like that. Always thinking the wrong way.”
“One day I’ll be grown-up, daddy.”
“Yeah, one day daddy’s little girl’ll be grown up. That’ll be the day, won’t it, honey?”
“Yes.”
“You know, it’s hard to imagine that. But you’re right, one day you’ll be grown up. Maybe then you’ll even look more like your mommy.”
“One day I’ll wilt too, just like mommy, won’t I?”
“No, I don’t think you’ll wilt just like mommy. But you’ll wilt one day. So will daddy. Everyone wilts. It’s just something you have to accept.”
“Just like daddy has to accept mommy’s gone?”
“Yes, just like daddy’s got to accept mommy’s gone. Now, isn’t it nice here—look over there, the sun’s just setting.”
“It’s beautiful, daddy!”
“I know it is. The way the sun just gets all purple, sort of bruised, so beautiful; the way it looks as it sets, seems to warm. It’s always taken my breath away. And it still seems like just yesterday I was with mommy, and we were watching that sun set together. I can see the glow on her face, the way her eyes looked up at it. I can see it.”
“It’s OK daddy.”
“I know. Daddy’ll get over it. Don’t worry, honey.”
“What does it say on the tombstone?”
“It gives how long she lived. See, it says: “1980 – 2000” right there. Mommy was born in 1980, died this year—2000.”
“What’s that below it.”
“Her name. Full name. Her middle name, too. ‘VICTORIE JAMIE MATTHEWS.’ Your middle name’s after her first name. Victorie.”
“Mommy has a nice name.”
“I would call her Vicie for short. Or Jamie. She didn’t like her middle name though, she thought it was too common. I’d do it just to tease her. Well, what do you say, honey? Should we go? Sun’s about all the way down. It’s going to be night soon.”
“OK. But I have my drawing. I want to give it to mommy.”
“Oh, that’s right. The drawing you did for mommy.”
“I hope mommy likes my drawing, daddy.”
“Daddy’s sure she will. You better get a rock to hold it down, though. Look—it’s just going to blow away in the wind like that.”
“OK.”

“There, that’s better. Now it’ll stay. Let’s go. We’re going to go get something to eat. Where you want to go?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“OK. We’ll figure it out. Hey, how’s fast food sound? Sound good?”
“It sounds good, daddy.”
“Then it looks like that’s where we’re going. And look--the sun’s just gone down. See the moon now?”
“Yeah.”
“Full moon.”

III
“How’s the burger?”
”Good, daddy. But it’s got these icky things on it.”
“What things, honey?”
“These. What are they?”
”Those’re onions. If you don’t like them, I can go back up there.”
“I’d like that, daddy.”
“OK. I’ll be right back.”

“And here you go. New burger for you. What does a good girl say?”
“Thank you, daddy.”
“Welcome. How’s it now?”
“Gooder.”
“You mean ‘better.’”
“OK. ‘Better.’”
“There you go, that’s a girl. I never liked onions, either. They make you cry when you cut them, you know.”
“They do? Why’s that, daddy?”
“It’s because they’ve got some chemical in them. The chemical makes you cry. Makes your eyes water.”
“Sounds like what mommy does to you, daddy.”
“And aren’t you just a perceptive girl? Let’s stay away from the subject of mommy for a while, though.”
“OK daddy.”
“What was that drawing you drew for mommy? You never showed it to me.”
“That’s cause it was just for mommy.”
“Oh.”

“I’m done.”
“OK. Put your garbage on the tray here. There you go. Now daddy’s just got to dump it—there we go. Let’s go home.”
“Yes daddy.”

“Moon’s still full.”
“It’s beautiful, daddy. Don’t you think so?”
“Yeah, daddy thinks so. But the way the craters make that face. And the memories daddy gets from it. They’re scars. I don’t like that about it. But daddy’s OK. You’re right, it’s beautiful.”
“It really is.”
“Yes, it really is. OK. Now it’s time for bed. Inside we go.”

“Daddy, can you tell me another story. A real one, one that can’t be found in books? Please daddy, please?”
“No honey, not tonight. Daddy’s worn out. He has to sleep.”
“Please?”
“No, I’m sorry. Daddy’s sorry, but he’s got to sleep. OK?”
“OK. But I want a story tomorrow night.”
”Daddy’ll try. Now, do you want your nightlight on again tonight?”
”Yes daddy.”
“OK. Sleep well, honey.”
“You too, daddy. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
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