Peek-a-boo

I’m flying. The air is cool above the clouds and for a moment I think I’ll stay here all day. This quiet, this silence, is all exhale; it’s holding your breath until your lungs burn and your heart thumps against your ribs, then releasing— forever. It’s a strange feeling – flying – as if I’ve been here before; there’s no moon, sun, or stars. No birds, no sound, no color, no sight. I’ve flown above sight, sound, and I’m not sure how to land. I wish that I could stay here all day.

I’m lying on my back, my hands stretched over my head. There’s a vibration against my neck – a massage, a thousand little fingers, begging me to sleep. Now I hear drums. The massage spreads toward the back of my skull. I’m falling through the sky. A guitar solo? I’m plummeting. There must be some kind of way out of here. I see land. Before I hit the ground, my eyes open to black. No angels, no sky, no sun, and no moon.

I’m awake. According to the cell phone under my pillow that’s vibrating and screaming Jimi Hendrix into my lifeless body, it’s 6am. Through the glow the phone, now in my palm, all I can see is the back of my wife’s head and Luci’s limp arm resting on my chest, her face buried in my armpit. They’re still above me, flying; they’ve learned to ignore Hendrix this early, and they’ll continue to fly while I take a shower, make some breakfast, back down our driveway, and drive into the frigid morning world.

I’m invisible. On most days I feel like a ghost. I wander from class to class, subject to subject, thought to thought, without the motivation of interest; only time. Time may be the most important thing in my life. Just like anything else, someone with too much time can easily take it for granted. I could say that I wish I had more time, but I’d be lying. Time may heal all wounds, cure the common cold, or leave scars that last a lifetime; but it’s time that makes a moment, a small fragment, seem so much more important; it’s time that makes little miracles.

I see people. I don’t watch them, I glance through them. I ponder my difficulty creating relationships, and then only shallow and tenuous, while wandering through halls, grass, and concrete. I, along with these invisible, moving statues, spend hours listening to lectures on society, equations, and words. This weight strapped to my back, between my shoulder blades, is my cross to bear - my time alone to ponder heaven, and realize that I’ll soon be there.

I’m driving. My mind is filled with knowledge, these few useful nuggets - I have to sift them through a pan. It feels like one too many voices, all giving me opinions I don’t agree with; they’ll argue, I’ll listen, and pretend not to care. I’ll try to avoid hitting a child darting across the street. I’ll try to make sense of the vibrations of knowledge still floating through my head.

Traffic is somehow humiliating. I find myself to be tolerant, accepting, and forgiving. I find myself to be loving, perhaps too confident in human nature, but… traffic is humiliating. When I’m behind the wheel, I’m a reckless bastard placing all possible judgment on one’s ability to signal before a turn; to ease into a stop; to go 5mph over the speed limit. Fuck you, guy staying stopped as the light turns green; I bet you’re a rapist, molester, or worse. It’s hard being confused on the way to heaven. Should you be angry, happy, or sad?

I’m home. I’ll slam my head on the car door seven out of ten times as I emerge into wind, sun, and green; knocking out the thoughts, the confusion, the ideas. My mind will run, but my body will drift; through grass, chest-high and soft; through flowers, a dot-matrix of hues; through gates, where judgment and conscience is erased. Everything gets erased here, and I feel like I’m flying. I am free, released from life. I don’t wake, I don’t learn, I don’t drive, and I see no one. I am flying.

I walk into the front hallway of our home; to the left is an opening with two stairs leading to the family room. There’s a couch and a few chairs in no particular arrangement, baby clothes and toys are scattered everywhere. The kitchen dining table, overlooking the family room through an open, rounded platform, has Cheerios and mashed potatoes smashed into abstract patterns. There was a war here, and it ended with a grenade of cuteness, exploding over everything. Through the family room, dining room, and kitchen, you’ll find a living room; a TV mounted in the corner, a well-placed couch and love seat, and a few more toys spilling into the entry. I’m still in the entryway, resting my backpack onto the floor and untying my shoes. I can hear small shrieks and little motor sounds coming from the normally-placed couch. As I slip my shoes off and bounce through the dining room, I can hear, “Mom-om-om-om-om-om.” I pretend she’s saying, “Dad-ad-ad-ad-ad-ad” as I walk around the corner and proclaim, “Luci Belle! Daddy’s home!” She’s actually quite unimpressed, but raises her hands above her head, moving all her little fingers and blowing into the air, her way of telling me she wants “up.”

Luci is my angel. She is nine months old, has curly hair like her mother, but light, almost blonde, in infancy. She’s a chub, but in the 15th percentile in both height and weight, which only means she’s going to be skinny like me and short like her mom. She is the cutest thing I have ever seen, and although that seems biased, you have to realize that I looked exactly like her when I was a baby, which makes me doubly biased. She’s learning to stand, but too wobbly to walk. She loves Cheerios, popsicles, and being held during long walks on the beach.

Luci likes playing with her toys on our bed. It’s easy on her knees while crawling and she can easily tempt fate by looking over the edge and blowing spit bubbles. But after school and with Daddy, Luci doesn’t like to play with toys. She doesn’t like to blow spit bubbles, tempt fate, or crawl. She’ll simply sit on a pillow with blankets snuggled all around her and wait. She’ll wait for Daddy to change into his work pants. She’ll wait for Daddy to change into his work shirt. She’ll wait while Daddy puts on different shoes. She’ll wait until Daddy changes into his life without her. She’ll wait until all of this is done, and without a sound, an action, or a tear.

“Peek-a-boo!” I’ll say as she rips the blanket from over her head. She’ll giggle and put the blanket back on. She’ll wait for a moment, until I call out her name, then she’ll rip it away again, and giggle even more. She’ll only do this for five minutes, because Daddy has to go. She’ll cry for ten minutes more, but Daddy will have already left. Ten minutes of her Daddy, after school, before work. Ten minutes of time we’ll never leave for granted.

I’m awake.