Still the Same, Right?
September 7, 1999
6:58 a.m.
Brigid comes home today. I'm very restless, and I'll admit I didn't get much "real" work done this morning. I think a part of it has to do with her arrival. I miss her. The place is disjointed without her here, sleeping in her bed. It's like the world is still spinning, but there's a chunk missing and its center of gravity is out of whack, and the sphere is wobbling like a off-center top winding down. I know she'll come running in with tons of stories, and lots of news and well ... just stuff to tell us. And I'll listen as best as I can. There's a picture of her on my desk from the last time she went away for a week. She's standing up amid a group of her school friends on the steps of the Capitol building, wearing a read jacket and a red baseball cap (her school colors are red and white), and she's asking Senator McIntosh (I think) a question. She looks like she comes up to McIntosh's chest ... maybe. When we dropped her off at my Mom and Dad's, she was only an inch shorter than my Mom. This is a really strange time in life. I wish I knew how to explain it. I wish I knew how to put my hands around it, and to open it up so that I really understood it. I just know that everything is changing around me, and I don't feel like I'm a different person than I used to be, but, then, that's completely wrong, because I feel totally different than I did when I was quite young, and maybe even totally different than I felt yesterday. Or maybe it's not a feeling thing at all. Maybe it's a thinking thing. There is a big difference between thinking and feeling (although you can't tell that by listening to the Corporate world, where it has been in fashion to "feel" something is right rather than to "think" it is--not sure exactly why, though). Maybe I think the same, but feel different. Actually, I think maybe I feel the same, but think differently. I think that's right. Anyway ... I got off the beaten path there. Sorry. Earlier this weekend, Lisa and I went to a movie. We took advantage of the time away from Brigid to see some of the movies we wouldn't take her to, and we had just seen Sixth Sense. While I was waiting for Lisa to get out of the bathrom, I saw a man in the waiting area. He was maybe thirty, and of Mexican or some other Spanish descent (he was too far away, and I am pitifully poor in picking out ethnicity). He wore a blue button down shirt, and black pants. his daughter was in his arms, and was maybe two years old at best. Several feet away, the Mom sat patiently on a bench. I stood against a big round concrete column and watched them together. The man held her in his arms, her legs around his chest as he stood there, his arm locked under her. She wore a dress like Brigid used to, and her hair trailed down her back like Brigid's used to, too. They played games. She laughed with a really high pitch, and he bent her backward like I used to do with Brigid. She strained to hold on, reaching up with her hands from an upside down position, struggling with that Having Fun grimace that kids get on their face. Then they tickled each other. I set my head back against the concrete and took a deep breath. Those days are over for me--thank God! But I felt them rubbing against my skin from the inside. And I saw them sinking into the man before me as he experienced the same feelings I did, I'm sure. But mostly, I saw the look of pure joy on the little girl's face as she played with her father. That's what I remember from those times. Brigid's face, her cheeks bunched up in a gap-toothed grin, her skin glowing (okay, that part may have just been from hanging upside down for too long). Her eyes would glisten like brown cherries, and she would scream. "Daddy!" And Lisa would glower at me. "Do it again, Daddy!" "Last time," I would say, trying to pretend I didn't see Lisa's rolling eyes. And I would dip her down, just like the man was doing across the way. And Brigid would giggle, like the girl did in her father's arms. Lisa eventually came out and we walked away, leaving the man and his daughter to wait for their movie.   Anyway, Brigid will be home today. I'll listen to her stories, I know. And I'll give her hugs and most certainly a bedtime story--she'll get one whether she want's it or not, damnit. I promise to pay attention, though. I promise to look at the curve of her face, and to see the way her expression changes around each subject she talks about. I promise to remember the feel of her hug, and to listen to the timbre of her voice. And each of these things I'll try to put into a small repository deep in my mind, into a place where I can pull them out any time I want and they'll be just like new again. But I know they won't. A baseball looks different when it's in a kid's mitt than when it's in a museum's glass case, and there's nothing the curator can do to change that. Time moves on. Kids grow. Events change people, and they suddenly find themselves thinking things they never thought they would think, feeling things they never thought they would feel. But still, somehow there's a piece of you who stays the same. It'll be nice to have her back. If really just for a little while. Have a good day.  Daily Persistence is © Ron Collins |
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"It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was." Anne Sexton |
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