By Damon Yeargain
I’ve seen a lot of my old friend lately, including tonight. He hasn’t spoken a word—he doesn’t need to. We’ve known each other so long that words are unnecessary. I relax in his presence. He helps me laugh, relive old times. Forget.
“Mommy!” Elizabeth’s voice slices through my fragile reprieve.
“Daddy’s coming!” I shout. My voice sounds thick, garbled, not quite mine. I stumble as I walk down the hall and then ascend the shaky stairs. Liz waits for me in her bed, her small figure barely outlined in the dim light. I wrap my arm around her and she nestles in close. I smell that unmistakable scent—the one Liz calls “the smelly daddy smell.”
My friend needs to leave. I’ll do it in the morning. It will be easier then, when my head aches and I can’t stand the sight of him. The days, when Liz is awake, won’t be so bad. It’s the nights, when I’m left alone with the emptiness, that I need my friend the most.
As sleepiness closes in around me, I wonder what Liz will remember when she gets older. The mother that gave her piggyback rides and tickle parties? Or the one losing her hair, bone skinny, who couldn’t get off the couch when Liz shouted over and over, “Come and play with me mommy! Play with me!”
The sound of my daughter’s tranquil breathing brings me back. I need to stay present. It’s just the two of us and I need to be the father I know I can be, the father I once was—before our world fell apart.
Tomorrow. No—tonight!
Once I knew Liz was sound asleep, I got up with a fury. I grabbed my friend by the neck and flipped him upside down over sink. Then watched that smooth, oaky, caramel-hued elixir of ruin pour down the drain.
losing our grip on purpose 