Daddy's Tears

She didn't remember him at all. There were only tiny telling pieces that proved her simultaneous coexistance with him in the world. She knew this through little facts spoken from photographs and grainy stories. The first time he saw her, he had cried. A uniformed Navy man on a crowded deck let tears roll down his scarred nose, twice broken due to sibling rivalry. In the midst of the other men, he held his baby girl in his weather-beaten arms, weeping at the sight of her. She was supposed to be named Nikki, and until the first time he met her, she had always been Nikki. In his letters he wrote to her mother, he always asked how Nikki was doing. But when he looked into her infant, lazy, dark brown eyes, he said simply, "No, she's an Ashley." And that is how her name was solidified.

She had been breathing only four months when he lost his life, collapsing due to heart failure in a twenty five year old body. There were a series of six pictures she had looked at over the course of her life, the only six in which father and daughter were pictured together. There were the photos of the first time he saw her on the shipdeck, a picture of him wiping her face as he fed her, his flesh Indian brown and flushed due to washing the car moments before. Finally, there was the photo of them on a red couch, with him holding her. She kept it in her wallet and in a frame on her dresser, the frame reading, "Anyone can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a daddy." At times, she had to remind herself that her father had even existed. It was those times that it began to hurt the most that she knew nothing of a father-daughter relationship.

She grew up in the single parent household, knowing nothing outside her world concerning men. Her uncles and grandpa were the only male figures in her life, with various others stepping in and out due to her mother's unstable relationships. The last one programmed to memory was Randall. He ate shelled sunflower seeds by the handful, loved the Dallas Cowboys, and fished from the banks of the Wabash River. She was his shadow. And then he was gone.

None of her friends in high school had stable households, so the absence of fatherhood was quickly forgotten. He was always a subconscious thought, but very rarely did she recall to remember him. One of the only stories she had heard was a time when he and her uncle had broken a window in the house while their father was away, and their mother came running up the stairs with a shotgun. She always laughed at that story, not because she necessarily connected with it, but simply due to the picture in her head of her sixty five year old grandmother running up the stairs. (Of course, she was much younger then, but it didn't make the situation any less humorous). She also listened to a tape he had made while on the ship. He was soft-spoken with words of endearment to her mother, telling her he couldn't wait to get home. He also recorded their songs on it, with little hearts drawn on the label. It never occured to her how thoughtful he was. He was almost like a character in a book. The trinkets and things left behind reminded her that he had once lived, but if it weren't for those, she would let him fade.

It wasn't until she got to college that she realized how much she ached for her father. One weekend she went home with her best friend, Casey. When Casey's father greeted Casey at the door, arms outstretched, kissing her adult forehead, and asking her how her car was doing, she realized it made her extremely uncomfortable to see it. She hadn't been around much father-daughter affection, and she didn't know how to receive it. She smiled through the awkward feeling, and had to convince herself that this was something that was totally normal, no matter how foreign it was to her in her own life. She then began to open her eyes to all of these relationships at her school. At her University's annual get-together, Family Weekend, she saw the fathers and daughters interact. On the table where the family photos were developed and framed, she saw a picture of a girl and her father, sticking out their tongues and making funny faces at the camera. She wished she had been old enough to make funny faces with her father at the camera that had been taking photos of them. She wished she would have been old enough for her father to take her on what these people call a father/daughter "date". She would have liked that. She would have liked that a lot.

There were reminders everywhere. The morning she woke up from a bachelorette party, the soon-to-be bride's father had been standing outside of the doorway as she walked to the kitchen. He asked if she could go get his daughter. She explained politely that she was taking a shower, but that she would be done shortly. She watched as the man paced back and forth, and from her trips back and forth from the kitchen to the room, he must have asked her two more times if his daughter was ready to speak with him yet. It annoyed her at first, especially since she didn't expect him to be there. It was extremely creepy to wake up to a man in the house. But then, she began to see the reason why this man was so anxious. This was the last morning he was going to have a conversation with his single daughter. She would be her husband's after that day, and those talks wouldn't be as frequent as they had been before. It was clear by his wringing hands and nervous voice how frequent they had been. And that made her sick. She still didn't understand this father-daughter thing. Seeing affection or closeness between father and daughter made her uncomfortable. She felt like that type of closeness shouldn't go on between an older man and a younger woman. She just didn't understand it at all.

At the reception, the floor was cleared after the first dance. She thought it was for all of the guests to dance, but she realized it was for more "father-daughter" stuff. She almost rolled her eyes at the thought. The father and daughter dance. Hadn't their relationship been emphasized enough? The walking down the aisle with the father, the father giving away the daughter to the groom, etc. Why must we all sit here in awkward silence while we watch these two dance to "Butterfly Kisses" and reminisce about the "good old days?" What is the point? To make those that don't have good relationships, or better yet, NO fathers to feel bad about themselves? She tried not to let it bother her. She felt the corners of her eyes twitch against involuntary emotions. Before she could stop it, they rolled down her nose, just like Daddy's. She wiped them away, feeling a distant connection with the biological one who helped create her. Her gaze was empty, into the crowd, searching for the closest sensation to feeling her father physically with her in that moment. The reality that her father would never dance with her on her wedding day was devastating, a thought that had not been recognized until now.

Her eyes continued to pour, and her fiance' reached out and took her hand. He squeezed it, in the way that always assured her that no problem was too complex for him to solve. He wiped a tear away, and put his arm around her. She tried to blend in with the breathless crowd, pretending that the sight of father and daughter pushed only her sentimental buttons, and that these were happy tears. She's sure some people looked on, touched by her compassion. But these were bitter tears. She knew she'd never have that, and that made her want it that much more.

Her fiance' looked into her infant, lazy, dark brown eyes, lifting her chin to his gaze. "When we have our mother-son and father-daughter dance, you can dance with my father." He smiled at her, reassuring and comforting. That sentence made a wave of peace go over her. God was giving her a second chance at a father. By marriage, she was gaining another father, one that she could adopt as her own, and one that could give her the relationship she so desperately wanted. She leaned her head on his shoulder as the song ended.

"I'd like that. I'd like that a lot."

Sometimes God has dog eyes.

I have been feeling distant from God for awhile. I think my life has been so busy with other concerns, He has kind of faded in the background. It's not that I'm not conscious of Him, but I don't think I've been conscious of Him as Lord. Plus, any time I pray, I feel my prayers are hitting the ceiling.

My future husband asked me to go out and look at the stars tonight. It was then I realized how far from feeling God I've been lately. I sat, outwardly soundless, emotionless, except for the buckets of tears rolling down my cheeks. I realized how much I missed God.

When I long for God, I long for Him in every way. This includes physically. One of the most bizarre yet serene experiences I've ever had was in a judgement house a few Octobers back. We went through the room in which you supposedly died in a car accident. You approach the throne of judgement. Your name is repeated over the loud speaker, letting you know that you are in the book of life, and that you can enter heaven. Jesus (who is wearing a bad fake wig) comes out in the traditional Jesus garb, walks down the line, and hugs each of the people in the room, welcoming them to heaven. But when he got to me, instead of being freaked out, I clung to him for dear life. I forgot that it was an actor, and I imagined myself actually approaching the physical form of Jesus, and being able to connect with Him past the spiritual. I marvel at those that were actually able to walk with Jesus, and see him sweat, and see him laugh, and see him cry...it all leaves me wishing I had existed and walked in the same steps as Jesus.

But with God, you don't get that physical human connection. That's part of the greatness of Him, that you can still feel close to Him while never experiencing a physical connection with Him. At the same time, that is part of my pursuit, my race toward Him, to possibly touch the hem of His garmet, and feel as close to Him as possible, hoping that one experience will be one step closer to experiencing His physical presence. It's a bittersweet loneliness as well. One of the top things I hope I can experience in heaven is literally going up to Jesus, and getting a close as possible. Like a child following after her father's shadow, I think if human form existed in heaven, I would be the one that would literally be attached to Jesus as He walked around.

I was feeling the presence of God tonight, and longing for that physical connection. Wesley was preaching/discussing (0ne of the things he's great at) and suddenly my dog, Claudia, came up to me. And for no other way to explain this other than it was a supernatural experience, Claudia looked me in the eye, about five inches from my face, and laid her chin on my shoulder. It was the only way a dog could hug. And I felt God saying to me, "I can't be there with you, but I am HERE with you." As bizarre as it sounds, when Claudia looked at me face to face, with that unblinkling stare,with those brown, wise eyes that pierced my soul, I felt like God had specifically directed His creature toward me to offer the only physical comfort He could give me.

He brought me to the banqueting house, and His banner over me was love.

- Song of Songs 2:4

Don't ever put me on a pedastal.

I will only let you down.

Tired insomnia.

Why is it that when I want (and need) sleep the most, it never comes? My mind (not so much my body, anymore) is weary from the 6 hour shift today, yet I can't seem to get myself to wind down to be relaxed. So, I down cold bottles of water--3 at a time-- and make a trip to the bathroom every five seconds. I sneak rice crispies from the cabinet (and scold myself later) and watch dateline specials about pedophiles and gang violence. I even resort to texting and leaving my boyfriend a voicemail, letting him know he can call me on his drive back home from closing, even though I know he probably won't call because he's the type that when he's tired, he crashes. Five seconds on the pillow, and he's out. And I wish I had some of that.

Instead, I have a tired headache and my eyes will be dry in the morning. It will be difficult to put my contacts in, and I'll accidently drop one on the floor. Then, I'll scrape the lens off and rid it of all the excess lint from the rug below, stick it in my eye, and nearly scream with pain, because I didn't get every fuzzy off from the artificial eyes.

It seems that in the school year, the nights where I need to pull an all nighter the most are the nights that I get the best sleep. You know, those in between studying naps that actually lead to all night naps with only two hours left to study for the test that you should have studied for for two weeks.

But nights like this, with nothing left to do but sleep, and nothing ahead but waking tomorrow at 6:55 to prepare for work... I cannot get my mind to stop talking. And I try not to talk back to it, but it's awfully persistent.

And I just realized how much I actually do miss my boyfriend. And that sucks. 5 days, come quick...and it makes me realize I haven't had a hug in about a week. And that's sad.

I guess the insomnia is my body's way of convincing me how important it is. I never really value sleep that much, unless it's used for procrastination. Isn't it funny that procrastination sleep is the BEST sleep? That and cold medicine sleep. They are both heavenly.

It's also always hot in my room. I don't get any of the air from the house. And if I turn my fan on the 2nd notch, the chain dangles and ticks against the fan, and I can't sleep. The 1st notch shakes the whole fan, so that's too noisy. The 3rd notch produces no noise, but doesn't cool the room very well. There's no comfortable medium. Any noise during sleep usually prevents me from going to sleep. I sleep best in a dungeon: cold, dark, and quiet. I also love soft sleep pants, and I can't sleep without a fluffy comforter over me. These both are almost impossible due to the heat, and so it leaves me shifting positions quite frequently. I don't like anything but sleep pants, and sleeping in shorts is uncomfortable (mostly because I get a wedgie during the night due to the shifting positions, and I wake up with it. Waking up with a wedgie is not fun.) Also, I have to leave my door open to even get any air flow going into the room. And I don't much like that, although I did realize it's starting to become habit-forming. The other night, I shut the door, and got freaked out, so I opened it back up. Something about the way the closing door made me feel. It's weird how some nights, my room is comforting, and other nights, it freaks me out. Some nights the shadows are innocent, and others, they are beastly villains ready to devour me as soon as I feel I'm safe. I think my imagination varies from night to night.

But I love my life, and I'm terribly blessed. I just wish I could sleep when I wanted to sleep.

untitled.

She found the ring in a box with forgotten things. Dust collected in her fingerprints as she pulled cardboard tops off of box after box. This stretch of time was the summer before she would begin her first full-time job. She knew she was a tire-marked carcass at hand for vultures, digesting her every flaw and weakness. It was a competitive work field, and she would have to resort to nothing short of slitting throats to extinguish any competition that might arise. This involved getting rid of any soft area in her life. This was the cleansing process. With each stuffed animal thrown away, with each love letter fed to a greedy fire, she felt more like what she was supposed to feel like: a woman who could click her heels down a hallway, intimidate coworkers, and always be ready to brown nose and all costs. This was the highly publicized transition from girl to man eater. And she was ready. No man's ego was safe. She would mentally castrate them with her above and beyond approach at everything, and they would soon feel their own transition from man at the top of success to a forgotten fad. She had already practiced within the classroom. The star student, the teacher's pet, the epitome of male power was always replaced with her. She knew people despised her, and she loved it. What had the world offered her in the form of relationships, anyway? She had already figured out she could survive on her own. It was her decision whether she chose to have friends or not, and she would only seek them when it was beneficial to her. Preferably, when it could hoist her one step further on the agency's ladder.

She turned the ring over and over in her dry hands. This was the item she had been looking for. It was the one she held the most contempt for. When she began this process, she had only this item in mind. She filled bags and bags of trash, but she knew this task wouldn't be fulfilled until she found this. It represented all weakness in her life. It was funny how this item stood for everything that had been damaging in her life, and it had done so in several forms. Silver, a diamond and band. The diamond and its match she pawned for student loans, and this silver ring remained. She hated items like this the most. Items that reminded her of pathetic memories. She loathed sentimentality. She didn't want to be reminded of anything that would give her an emotion. Emotions were weak. She couldn't let anything break her now. Not now, not after all the hell and hard work she had put forth. She threw the ring across the room, and it landed beneath the leather sofa. She got up from her cross-legged position and began walking as if someone were following her. She would pick up the ring later. She didn't want to deal with it right now. She threw herself on her bed, and turned the t.v. on. Laguna Beach was going to start in five minutes.

Four days passed before she pulled back the leather flap. She stared at it, shining by the light of the living room lamp. She reached under the sofa, slowly, carefully, as if the ring had a life of its own. And it did. It pierced her with its life. It raced her heart with its life. It made her feel with its life. And she hated it. Gripping it with two fingers, she took the long way to the kitchen. This item deserved a much more brutal death. She walked slowly, meticulously down the less traveled path. It deserved to wait out its fate, nervous and knowingly. Her fingers clenched the band as if attempting to choke the breath out of it. She dropped it into the sink, and started to run the water. The process was halted. She had started to wash dishes earlier, and the plug still covered the opening. She smiled at the thought. Just one plastic plug between this ring and razor sharp teeth ready to devour it while it squealed in agony. She removed the plug, the excess water escaping through the hole. Flushing it down the sink would not be enough for it. She didn't want to imagine the possibility of it escaping, and somehow finding its way back into her house. She had heard one story about a man that had lost a ring while in the ocean and it later showed up inside of a fish he caught three years later. Even though she didn't eat fish, she didn't want to take any chances on this enemy getting away unharmed. She decided to further entertain herself with its demise by switching the blades in motion prior to sticking the band between them. The sound hummed across the counter top, creating a sacrificial Gregorian chant for this ceremony.

She looked down at it once more. She wanted to prove to herself that she could read this ring, read the whole thing, and not be effected by it. She wanted to focus in on it, and feel nothing. She took an adrenaline-coated breath. She saw the first word clearly. Her lips formed around the word, but her throat caught the sound. “True.” She let out another shaky sigh. Just two more words, Belinda. Just two more, and then you can cut this out of yourself. Where has all of your confidence gone? She had stood up to people twice her size in intellect, and she couldn't read the words on a stupid ring? This was ridiculous. She felt the corners of her eyes tickle, but she tried to ignore it. “Love.” She hated that word. She didn't know why it had existed. It was weak. It was weak! Just one more. Her pulse echoed in her ears. You can do it. Her stomach quivered. It's not a big deal, just a word; it doesn't mean anything. “Waits.” She stood up tall, reading the words together, as they were supposed to be read. Empty words. Empty words, that's all they are. Empty. True love waits. True love waits. True love waits. True...love...The ring bounced metallically into the hole. She threw her body against the sink before collapsing to the tile below. No, no, stop it! I don't want to remember! I don't want to feel! I don't want..it.... years of uncried tears began escaping down her cheeks. She tried to stop, tried bouncing her thoughts as she'd trained herself before, focused instead on an essay question she once read in class. The 75 investors each purchased their shares of stock and signed the shareholder agreement...It wasn't working. It wasn't! It wasn't! It wasn't! The 75 investors...No! No! Each purchased! Each, each, pur...chas.. It was too late now. The vulnerability had its way with her. Her mind took her to the place she had been fighting to forget. With each swipe of the blade across the packing tape, she had tried to forget. With each study night instead of sleep, she had tried to forget. With each overdose of sleep medicine, she tried to forget. But it couldn't be stopped now. It had the power she never wanted it to have again: the power to make her feel.

It was written with her favorite pen on July 1998. It was the pink pen with a pink flower and black ink. “I promise.” It was the same summer she had learned what it meant to truly love the Lord. It became the most important thing in her life. She encouraged her friends to promise too. Most didn't, and she was usually there to pick up the pieces after their mistakes. She was so thankful that she had decided to wait until she got married to give that very sacred piece of herself away. She met him her freshman year in college. He was beautiful, in all the ways she imagined her future husband would be. He loved the lord, he read his Bible everyday, and he prayed for her on a daily basis. She had been through several relationships before, and that promise still held true, in every sense of the word. This guy would protect her, she knew. This guy would be in the same fight as she. He had made that pledge as well, and she knew she was safe with him.

It happened a month later in a cheap motel room. They weren't celebrating their first married night together. They didn't have the lingering taste of wedding cake in their mouths. He didn't lift her over the threshhold and out of her dress. They had no rings, except for the purity rings on their right hands. It was all wrong. Both families reveled in their children remaining pure when “So many kids nowadays don't do this sort of thing”and they became living examples to their community. They were youth leaders at their church, and they were even in charge of purity weekends. As she held broken girls in her arms, weeping over their loss of innocence, she was in bed with him every Saturday night, then sat in a pew with him Sunday morning. They decided it was only right that they get married. They couldn't break the addiction, and so, while knowing little about one another, they wed to eliminate the guilt. As she wore her white dress that day, her mother adjusted her veil. With a tearful confession, she told her how proud she was of her and Mark, and that she wished that she would have been more like her daughter. She cried that day, but not out of happiness. It was all wrong.

Six months later, the guilt was still there, and a new guilt had personified. At twenty, she was constantly teased about being married. She was one of the most attractive girls at her school, and the boys couldn't believe that she was taken. Marriage was for old people. Marriage made her feel tired. Tired and undesirable. At 19, she felt 38, and in a mid-life crisis. She met someone, a guy named Tyler. He was flattering, and she needed fresh affection. They stayed out late studying, and one thing led to another. It was all wrong. Mark figured it out less than two weeks later. He told her he still loved her, that he was willing to work through it with her, and they would get through it together. But that wasn't the truth. She couldn't let it be the truth. The truth for her was that Mark was the one who she gave her virginity to. But she was in love with Tyler. She tried to explain this to Mark several times, but he wouldn't have it. They began fighting. They had never fought. She began staying out late, and not coming home. She stayed with Tyler, the man who was perfectly conscious-free about stealing another man's wife. She didn't respect the man, but he was her way out of thearms of the other man she didn't respect: the thief of her youth. It was all wrong. Eight months later, both Mark and Tyler were gone. She was divorced at 20. She had planned on being with one person for the rest of her life. She wanted to have five babies, and live in a house with a two car garage and a yard large enough to play football in. She wanted her daughters to be virtuous and her sons to be leaders.
She wanted to stay in love with her husband through everything, and have the kind of affection for one another that everyone envied. She wanted to be the couple that would never be on a bowling league together. The couple that did exotic things, like backpack through New England and hike through northern California. But it had been none of that. It was all wrong.

“Miss Taylor? You're needed in the conference room to discuss the new proposal.” She shifted her thoughts to Trevor, the young reception trainee that had been hired this week. His voice was irritating, like a untied balloon releasing its air. She leaned her body forward, locking eyes with him. This was the look. Wait, wait for it...wait... her intimidating gaze quickly had Trevor looking at the floor. She smirked at this predictable reaction,turning her chair to the window outside. “I'll be in there momentarily.” “Yes, Miss Taylor.” Her room was quiet again. Trevor had let in all the chaos with his entry. She looked at her rock garden on the desk, and dug her finger in the sand. She had gotten angry one day and had broken the doll house rake that had come with it. She was at the top of her firm. Her name was constantly in the paper, and she had the largest office anyposition like hers had ever been offered. She leaned back and let out a weathered sigh, and gazed over at the mirror on the wall. She stood up, adjusting her hair and blouse. She studied herself, noticing that she was in the best shape of her life. Her skirt framed her figure perfectly, and she was easily the most attractive of all the other women on the floor. Her pay raise had doubled the original, and she had bought two tickets to Northern California for paid vacation.
As she walked to her door, her heels clicking against the stone floor, she turned back, examining her office. Her countless consultations and literature on Feng Shui left it, though oddly positioned, completelybalanced and radiating with positive energy. Looking around the room, studying every detail, she realized she had everything she had ever possibly wanted by way of setting goals. As she walked down the hallway,she caught a moment to stop and take her life in. Even in the midst of all of this, there always remained a sinking feeling that would stay with her until she no longer lived. .It was wrong. It was all wrong.