When You're Gone

Largely inspired by Avril Lavigne's song by the same name.

I rock back and forth as we hit a pothole in the road. I really wish the mayor would do something about our sucky roads. Is that even his job? Who knows? He doesn’t do enough of anything for us to find out. I think of little things like this, but the fact at hand doesn’t leave my mind… even though my tears have dried for the most part.

The radio DJ begins talking about the parade that my dad was supposed to be in. I reach over and switch off the radio, with no objection from my stepmother. I know I can’t stay bitter about my father’s leaving. He’s been doing it all of my 16 years… on and off, of course. Each time was scarier than the last, and each Last Hug left his warmth on my body longer than the previous.

I notice my stepmother, Yvonne, wiping a tear from her face, but before she can lose it and begin sobbing, she does what we always do. My turning off the radio was like preparing the stage for her. Her tune is a bit off, but she is shaken, so I can understand. "If you need me, call me! No matter where you are, no matter how far!"

I join in. "Don’t worry baby. Just call my name, I’ll be there in a hurry. You don’t have to worry, ‘cause…" That’s when we break it down. We get so loud and obnoxious sounding that we have to laugh—like we always do. I turn back on the radio, and the DJ has put on "Walking On Sunshine", so we can’t frown anymore.

We pull into the driveway not long after the song goes off and I help carry Yvonne’s bouquet of daisies inside, even though she could probably carry them herself. I know it’s just as hard for her as it is for me when Daddy gets deployed. I also kind of want to hold them and smell them. They’re something my dad bought with care.

I put the daisies in a vase when we get inside. They’re yellow daisies—Yvonne’s favorite, I believe. I ask her where she wants me to put them. She sits down on the couch and pulls off her sandals. "Could you put them on my bedside table?"

"Sure."

"Thanks, baby." I smile and trot up the white carpeted stairs that lead to the master bedroom. I set the daisies down and fully intend to walk out of the bedroom and never look back, but I notice the red shirt that Daddy had on yesterday is lying on the floor. Probably just where he left it. I bend down and pick it up, and I’m just going to toss it into the hamper, but something stops me.

I can feel that feeling… that dirty sweat feeling that stays on a shirt after it has been worn. I’m holding it at waist level, but I can smell his cologne on it. I lift it to my nose, almost ceremoniously, and sniff it. It smells just like Daddy, and for a moment, I feel like I’m with him—like I’m back in his arms and he’s about to climb aboard a bus and ride potholes all the way to the highway… and ride the highway all the way to the desert.

I wipe my tears (and leave a little trail of mascara) on Daddy’s shirt and send it sailing into the corner where the hamper resides. I go to my room and have a seat on my bed to begin a long series of sobbing and reading and sobbing and reading. I pick up the book I am currently submersed in, Burned by Ellen Hopkins, and open it to my bookmark. A tiny slip of paper falls out. It’s a note:

You know I’m coming home soon, so just wipe those tears off your face and smile one good time for me. I love you so much!
Daddy

Author's Note

The coverart features young Christian Golczynski accepting the American flag from Marine Lt. Col. Ric Thompson at the funeral of his father. It was taken on May 18, 2007 and appeared in Nashville's THE TENNESSEAN newspaper. I strongly encourage you to click on it (to enlarge it) and give it a good look.