Art of Letting Go
After two years of living in this apartment, I am barely realizing how white this ceiling is. The more I notice the abundance of chips within the ceiling, the more my eyes become heavier. I have no clue if I do manage to fall asleep or not because before I know it, the sounds of a loud set of lungs fill the room. Maybe if I ignore the cries they will just eventually simmer on their own. The cries immediately increase along with my frustration.
Thoughts of regret instantly fill my mind, and I think back to how my life got to this point in the first place. A year ago, my main priorities were deciding whether I wanted to work overtime or indulge in a weekend full of trysts and intoxication. Now I have no choice but to focus on this freeloading little ball of skin.
I hate being a father.
“Shut the fuck up…” I mutter under my breath. “What do you want from me?”
I turn my head and notice the picture of my girlfriend that I had on my nightstand. Some nights I forget to lay it flat. I should put the picture in a box somewhere but I can’t help but want to keep it close to me.
The last couple hours have been a blur to me, and it feels like I’m under the influence of psychedelics rather than simply being sleep deprived. I check my phone and see that it is four-thirty in the morning. I’ve been up for two and a half hours, and I need to leave for work at eight. The crying gets much louder and I finally lose it.
I take my pillow and lay it over my face so that my own screaming does not make her mood worse. I scream as loud and long as I can. An abundance of stress and frustration finally being released into the open. I have always had issues with being open about my emotions. The last time I waited to release all my stress and frustration, I ended up with this little “gift” right here. Eventually I toss the pillow to the wall and I can hear it hit the floor with a soft thud. The crying continues and I barely manage to get myself out of bed to turn on the light and go pick up my daughter.
Every day for the past eight months she wakes up at the same time and doesn’t stop crying until her lungs give out – which is a pretty long time. Her screaming continues to flood the room and I decide I can’t take it anymore.
“WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO SHUT YOU UP!?”
The crying suddenly stops and so do I. I take slow small steps towards her crib in preparation for her to return to crying. I peek into her crib and her tiny caramel colored eyes stare back at me in confusion. Her mother had the same caramel eyes. I remember them every day. Sometimes I forget that for the past eight months, although my daughter keeps me company, I have been alone. The night the world gave me my daughter, it also took away my best friend.
She took away my best friend.
I know how selfish it is to blame my own daughter for the death of my girlfriend, but the nights where I can’t stop thinking about her, I can’t help but try to find something or someone to blame for her being taken from me.
I often think back to the day my girlfriend’s pregnancy was revealed to me. I knew I wasn’t ready to be a father. I couldn’t even take care of myself, let alone a baby who needed me every second of the day. To this day, I still couldn’t take care of either of us.
My daughter stares back at me from her crib, and for the first time since her birth, I see the resemblance of my girlfriend’s face in hers. She lets out a whimper and slowly begins to start crying again. For the first time in her eight months of life, the sound of her crying doesn’t make me want to kill myself. I pick her up and gently nestle her head on my shoulder as I walk around the room.
“Daddy’s here baby, don’t worry,” I whisper to her. “You don’t need to cry anymore baby, I don’t know why you cry so much. But it’s okay, because I love you. I’m always going to love you, my baby.”
After about fifteen minutes she finally begins to calm down. Instead of bringing my daughter to her crib, I bring us over to my bed and sit down as I hold her close in my arms. I pick up the picture of my girlfriend and hold it in front of my daughter’s face. It occurs to me that I have never talked to my daughter about her mother.
I spend the next hour telling her everything about her mother. From memories, to her personality, her perfections and her imperfections. I try to hold back the tears as I talk to my daughter, but some manage to slip out.
Before I know it, my daughter slumbers in my arms and the sun comes up. I get up and lay her back in her crib. Exhaustion has taken over me completely, but I still can’t help but stare at her as she sleeps. For the longest time, I was angry at the world for taking the only person that has ever mattered to me away. I was too stubborn to realize that although my best friend is gone, she managed to leave me a gift before she left.
Author Bio: Julian Yoval is a third year student at California State University, San Marcos where he is majoring in literature and writing. His interest in literature and writing has recently led him into an interest in teaching. He is currently a college tutor for the LEUSD and hopes to obtain his teaching credentials upon graduation.