Colours

ramblings from a difficult time... I don't know what it is but it made me feel better to get it out.

     No amount of shameless screaming in the hallway could quiet her. A bottomless well. It was incessant. She was an endless flow of anger and cruelty. How many times can a person slam their own head against the floor before they render themselves dumb? Color had bled long ago from our days. Left behind a world of dirty, dreary greys. 

     I picked up toys. I mopped the floor. I folded my son's clothes in silence. Little shorts and pants... as if for a plush teddy bear. Eighteen months is such a short time to have heard and witnessed so much. A man is supposed to have all the answers. A father is supposed to know exactly what to do. I simply folded and smiled at my angel. The action helped me feel cleansed and approaching calm, even though tears were running.

     Little fingers curled into the leg of my sweat pants are my anchor, preventing her floods from washing me away and erasing the two of us here struggling to breathe. "Kiss daddy" and "hug daddy", every minute or two, our preserver. Our serenity. Our peace, our oasis... Each other.

     Later I sat on the edge of the tub, lost in the comfort of an angels laughs and smiles returned. The earlier rants of "I hate you", "you're ugly", "you're stupid" and "I wish you were dead", forgotten. At least for the moment. The festering wounds and scars we'll deal with later won't we buddy?

     We lay together after seeing "Where the wild things are" and "Where the sidewalk ends"... Slow, steady breathing, his warmth of deep sleep snuggled up to my neck. Small hands on my face and head... I stare through the tears again at the ceiling. Because fathers are supposed to have the answers. A man is supposed to know exactly what to do. Right? The blurred prism of nightlight and tears make prayer somehow, something more... Make his world... our world happy again. Vivid and bright. Colorful once more. Bleed the greys and blacks to purples, blues, and orange...