ManicWorld Magazine

Do you remember the Waller-Allen case?
That Oklahoma mother with the duct tape and the safe room. A devil in the sunshine.
That news broke on the day of your youngest uncle’s last ever Little League game. The team lost but not by a lot.
He celebrated with his teammates on the diamond and next to me your grandmother murmured
“oh, how awful.”
It was the type of case that sent every attorney home in tears.

The day I found out, I fell into a patch of wild cactus off the street your mom grew up on.
Andrew had invited me to go cycling with him but I hadn’t eaten that morning and I wasn’t myself.
Your mom pulled thorn after thorn out of my perforated spine. I think she knew I was upset.
Out of nowhere, she said, “there is going to be something new soon.”
She meant you.

I remember having you in my arms in the supermarket, buying some Yakult for you.
In the cart, a sprig of thyme and a box of Hello Kitty ramen noodles.
I remember the EMTs rushing through the sliding doors and towards the old woman who had collapsed in the bakery, her papery hands worn thin
By tradition.
The sirens blared and the lights flashed and made you cry.
I tried to hide you. I think you saw anyway. They couldn’t save her.

Once at the lake you asked me to follow your gaze and watch the ducks and geese play.
When I did, I realized something that you didn’t.
You thought they were playing, but the geese were drowning the duck in a flurry of black feathers.
You were so pleased. To you, it was all a game. I never told you.

The way you reach for me at the dinner table makes me weak in the knees.
Sometimes I can’t look at you. Sometimes it’s all I can manage.
On the worst days I know you will still reach for me and ask for dessert.

It’s my first night in the rehab center and all I can think about is you sleeping in my arms on the
couch.
You prefer it over your own bed.
I will make your bed better when I come home.

There’s a moment out in the hill country where your mom is showing you the fields of
rhododendrons.
The mound is steep but not dangerous and we’re at the top.
You both turn back to look at me and wave. I wilt.
The camera’s aperture does its job.

I’m on my back on the asphalt and there’s a funny way about me.
My nose is light and heavy at the same time and also very very wet.
I know I should be thinking about insurance and emergency contacts but all I can summon is I’m sorry.

You asked me why flowers grew in some places and not in others.
I couldn’t answer you.
You’re asleep in the nursery and I’m on my knees in the hallway with your mom’s arms around my trembling body.
I can’t breathe.
If I move a single inch, evil people will come in through your windows and take you from me and all will be as it was before.
I will hold vigil until they are gone again.

I want to take you to ball games.
I want to feed you peach yogurt on the living room floor.
I want to show you receipts and sunsets and isopods.
I wish there was something I could teach you that your mom can’t.

Was I ever even here?
Did you dream me?
I’m sorry. I meant to be here.

You hated it when we took you to Wicked.
The Wizard’s big mechanical head scared you. I couldn’t blame you.

I’m standing knee-deep in the water in the living room and you’ve been screaming in my arms for years.
I’m watching the books swim off the shelves and the egg timer bob up and down.
We have to get out of here.

I have to get you out of here.

I’ll avert my head during the scary scenes just like you do.
There will be a time when you are older and you will scorn me and blame me for things I did not do, and I will deserve it.
I’m going to apologize anyway.

Your mom startled you today.
She was in the kitchen and you broke something and she yelled.
She broke down in tears after. She hated that she scared you.
I held her and told you to wait one moment. We’ll talk about it in just one second.

Are you ever going to love me? Are you ever going to see me?

When you came, you were the purest thing I knew.
I did not kiss you. My lips were too tainted for your innocent being.

My friends at work ask about you.
I smile and relate pictures and stories.
I do not mention the panic that overtook me when you hit your head on the bathroom counter.

Stop it. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry. It’s okay. Don’t cry. Don’t be mad. I love you. I’m sorry.

I like watching you with the stray cats.
You are kind to them, like you know what they’ve been through.

What if I dreamed you? What if you were never here?
Would you have tried to be real for me anyway?
Your mom took you to the beach and sent me all kinds of photos of you collecting seashells.
Your fingernails are like seashells.
Small and pink and lifeless.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Maybe it was ludicrous to ever exist without you.
My singing voice is no good, you want a lullaby anyway.

I can’t do it. It’s like there’s a crowd watching.
I put on Fitzgerald and I say goodnight. I’m sorry.

We live next to a Korean fried chicken restaurant, where once I almost choked on the bones.
I cannot bring you back to a place where it could have ended prematurely.

I’m so tired and I brought it on myself.
You are my fault.
I would never sleep again if you asked me.

You hurt yourself trying to kick down your own dollhouse.
I grieved for you and the princesses. Their banquet halls and boudoirs that I helped build.

All a father can ask of a child is to remain.