Boats Against the Current

Mourning and rejuvenation.

Boats Against the Current

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past”. �" F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Grey clouds settled upon the red fire morning. They were as ashes after the smoke had cleared, leaving only remnants of the past. I hoped for rain to wash away what the fire had not burned. I was ready to begin anew, but I needed to feel cleansed of my past first.

            I looked out the warped window, taking in the sunrise and the impending storm. The old oak tree looked solid in the wind. I wished to be like it �" strong and sturdy; Immovable, even in times of crisis.

 

My gaze was set, but my attention wandered. There was too much to take in, and not just outside the window. My thoughts rolled with one another inside of me, crashing into my worries and inhibitions causing new distractions to roll forth. It was a cycle that I had allowed myself to become caught in. I shook it off and unlatched the frame and slid open the pane, slowly, as not to wake the sleeping figure near me.

            I looked at the worn armchair next to me and took in the sight of my daughter sleeping. If only everything could be so tranquil. Her lids fluttered softly, allowing her eyelashes to cast dancing shadows on her porcelain cheeks. Serenity was not something often found in her small features. A furrowed brow and slight frown were constant tenants. At the age of eleven, she had seen things for a much older crowd. It was only in tender times like these that I could see the true nature of her sweet face and how much she resembled her mother.  I found a blanket in a basket next to the armchair and gently laid it over her. She wrapped herself in it and a smile played at her lips. She had found solace in that tattered afghan. It offered her peace, if only on a subconscious level. I had hoped to be like that afghan to her. I had hoped that she would turn to me and take in what I had to offer. She did not. She turned to no one. She collapsed inside of herself when it happened. She didn’t talk to me. She couldn’t even look me in the eyes. I thought she had blamed me for what had happened, but she only blamed herself. I wish she knew that she was not to blame �" no one was.

            I let her be and made my way into the kitchen. After making myself a cup of tea, I felt ready to face the stack of condolences on the kitchen table. One by one, I slid open the envelopes. One by one, I read faux-sympathies and shallow offers for help. They wrote to me, “I understand how it feels”, and “I cannot imagine what you must be going through.” Well, I wish you wouldn’t even try to imagine. You wouldn’t be able to fathom the pain, even in your most vivid dreams. I understood that they were trying to help, so I allowed them to think they were.

            I had finished my tea by now. I slipped my head around the corner to sneak a peek at my daughter. She was still asleep �" still cocooned in the afghan. I needed an afghan, or at least something to act in its place, but I knew all I really needed was already gone.

            I sat down once more at the table with my laptop, and I began to type. “Thank you so much for your kind thoughts and actions. My family has needed it at this time. We appreciate your dear friendship very much. Take care.”

            I printed off enough copies to send to each person who penned a note to us. After endless stuffing, addressing, and licking closed, I heard rustling emerging from the living room. I meandered in slowly to see my daughter rubbing sleep off of her eyes. She looked at me, and smiled. I wondered if she too had felt the renewal in the morning. I looked out the window again to see rain falling slowly on the glass. This old home needed the rain to wash away the feelings of hopelessness that had become stagnant in the waters of life. The rain opened up the soil of our souls and was cultivating our ability to cope and live with the shadows of our past.

            “Good morning,” I whispered to her through a smile. “Good morning,” she yawned back. “I can make pancakes, if you’d like.” She nodded complaisantly. She always did like pancakes.

 

I found myself back in the kitchen trying to recreate the breakfast her mother would always prepare. I kept finding eggshells in the batter. I could never do it the way she did. I would never be able to do it the way she did. I felt it all come back to me. My façade of healing cracked. I sunk to the floor with my batter-plastered hands held to my face. I knew she had come into the room. I had promised myself that I wouldn’t allow her to see me cry. No daughter should ever have to see her father cry when he is trying to nudge her forward past the tears. Yet, here I was. A heap on the faded linoleum contributing only muffled sobs to the silence.

            I removed my hands from my face once I had managed to reign in my emotions. I looked at her as she stood over me, a damp towel in hand. She had tears on her face as well. “You’ve got pancake on your face, dad.” She then smiled at me and thrust the towel in my direction.

            I took the towel with a small laugh and ran it over my face. We were both laughing now. She took a seat next to me and leaned her small head on my shoulder as we giggled over my batter-glossed face and egg-shelled hands. Occasionally, she would reach up and wipe away a stray bit off of my face with her long fingers. “I’m okay if you don’t make pancakes again,” she told me.

 

“I’ll learn how someday.” And I meant it. I may not be able to match her mother in the ways of nurturing and caring, but I was all she had now, and I would learn to do so, even if it took years of taste-testing pancakes wrought with egg-shells.

            “Why don’t we go get breakfast instead?” She smiled again and nodded her head. We helped each other to rise and she left to get her shoes as I rinsed my face in the sink. I would never be her mother, but I would have to try.

            We both had our shoes on, and jackets in hand as we stood by the door looking out the window. The rain had subsided and life was coming out of hiding. My daughter leaned on me and sighed. A bird flew out of the old oak and flew on to greater heights. As I watched the bird disappear from sight, I felt my daughter’s small arms wrap themselves around me and squeeze tighter. We were going to be all right. We, too, were onto greater heights. “You ready?” I asked. Her small hand found mine and we walked towards the door together. We were ready to progress. Not alone, but as one.

“And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow fast in movies, I had the familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.” �"F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby