Rain Coat

I am gone. The person I once knew as myself has disappeared. This realization set in a couple days ago as I was making lunch. The incredible anger, confusion and insurmountable sadness I had been harboring for a few days finally burst. While our egg noodles overcooked and boiled over, tears poured from my eyes. My soul weeped. My wife walked passed and I grabbed her and pulled her in tightly. No words. Just an overwhelming emotional wrap holding us together. We both embraced as if it were our last and we liberated ourselves. I've never felt so close and so far from her in the same moment.

"I don't want Parker to die," is all I could get out between the short and involuntary breaths.

In that instant of weakness, of uncontrollable emotional allowance, was the realization that I was a changed person. I think I was crying for Parker, and for myself, and for my wife, and for my pure and innocent daughter. I have been holding on so desperately to the way things were. But now, under this incredibly massive burden and responsibility to life, there just isn't any room for the fairytale of the past. That book has been written and is now on the top shelf of the annex. Its checkout history shows only one patron, but it has been removed from circulation. Its binding has fallen apart. Its cover has begun to delaminate. The pulp and paper has dried and cracked.

I would love to sit and sulk about it, flip through its pages, re-read my favorite passages, but there is no time. There are a growing number of decisions to make and places to go. There are new memories to make and a life to try to save. A life to try to save...

I love you, Parker.


June 14, 2011