the part i kept
“Which part of me will you keep?” he asked me about a month before he died.
When I realized his eyes weren’t sparkling I knew he wasn’t looking for a wiseass response to make him laugh so I took a minute and thought carefully before answering.
“Your sense of what’s right and what’s not,” I finally said. “And your humor.”
His sad eyes filled with tears that didn’t fall. “Thank you.”
I nodded and felt my own eyes fill with tears as I watched him stumble from my room, his gait made unsteady by the neuropathy that plagued him.
The closet I use to hold memories springs open at the most unexpected times, and for some reason, this is the memory that makes the most frequent escape. It takes my focus and my breath away every time because when it comes I can't help but wonder if I've failed him.
"Your sense of what's right and what's not."
His sense of right slanted left, as does mine, so I’d like to think that I did keep his sense of what’s right and what’s not. Listening to the puppets and their masters spin their tales, though, I know my outrage would be bested by his. He always did feel things more intensely than I.
"And your humor."
But I'm not nearly as droll, as bitingly witty, as wickedly funny.
He was a good man, but he was also a man tortured by his past, worrying almost constantly about whether he was good enough and fearing love even as he longed for it.
When he was awake he was able to keep his demons at bay. When he slept, though, the memories and the demons he struggled with would haunt his dreams. Sleep was something he came to regard as an enemy to be fought, and fight it he did. He’d go days without it, and I could judge just how long he’d been awake by how many coffee filters appeared in his trash can.
Much to his dismay, sleep would always win, and when it did it was almost violent. He’d go grudgingly, fighting until the last possible second, until finally, with a twitch of his fingers, he’d slip down into a sleep so deep it was impossible to wake him.
It was painful to watch.
And now, all these years later, I realize what part of him I have kept, or rather, what part of him has kept me.
I don't sleep anymore.
When I realized his eyes weren’t sparkling I knew he wasn’t looking for a wiseass response to make him laugh so I took a minute and thought carefully before answering.
“Your sense of what’s right and what’s not,” I finally said. “And your humor.”
His sad eyes filled with tears that didn’t fall. “Thank you.”
I nodded and felt my own eyes fill with tears as I watched him stumble from my room, his gait made unsteady by the neuropathy that plagued him.
The closet I use to hold memories springs open at the most unexpected times, and for some reason, this is the memory that makes the most frequent escape. It takes my focus and my breath away every time because when it comes I can't help but wonder if I've failed him.
"Your sense of what's right and what's not."
His sense of right slanted left, as does mine, so I’d like to think that I did keep his sense of what’s right and what’s not. Listening to the puppets and their masters spin their tales, though, I know my outrage would be bested by his. He always did feel things more intensely than I.
"And your humor."
But I'm not nearly as droll, as bitingly witty, as wickedly funny.
He was a good man, but he was also a man tortured by his past, worrying almost constantly about whether he was good enough and fearing love even as he longed for it.
When he was awake he was able to keep his demons at bay. When he slept, though, the memories and the demons he struggled with would haunt his dreams. Sleep was something he came to regard as an enemy to be fought, and fight it he did. He’d go days without it, and I could judge just how long he’d been awake by how many coffee filters appeared in his trash can.
Much to his dismay, sleep would always win, and when it did it was almost violent. He’d go grudgingly, fighting until the last possible second, until finally, with a twitch of his fingers, he’d slip down into a sleep so deep it was impossible to wake him.
It was painful to watch.
And now, all these years later, I realize what part of him I have kept, or rather, what part of him has kept me.
I don't sleep anymore.
4 Comments:
Poetry once again. Your adoring public still waits for the book.
(Insert the crazy hugging guy here.)
"He was a good man, but he was also a man tortured by his past, worrying almost constantly about whether he was good enough and fearing love even as he longed for it."
Funny thing about insight, kwim?
xoxo
You keep it well, you do him proud.
crap. i'm a blubbering mess.
i can't wait for your book either. please make sure you include a coupon for tissues when it is published.
xo
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