To Color My Dreams


I lie in my bed, heart pounding, wondering what it is that has awakened me.  I stare into the dark, listening and waiting, trying to make sense of my confusion.  Is there a raccoon at the bird feeder again?  Trouble at work?  I rise and go to the window.  Part the curtains and peer into the darkness.

There is nothing.

I turn to the bed and I am flooded with memories.

 “Daddy?”

I switch on the light.  She stands there at the door, in pajamas too small.  Her hair is knotted.  I wonder if she brushed her teeth before she went to bed.  I wonder when she went to bed.  If.  I sit in the rocking chair Liese bought for my thirty-eighth birthday and pat my knee.  Tess wiggles her way onto my lap and leans against my chest. 

“I’m afraid, Daddy.”  She sticks her thumb in her mouth, a habit my sister comments on every time she stops over with another one of her crappy casseroles.

I begin rocking.  “What are you scared of, Baby?”

She pulls the thumb from her mouth to whisper.  “Forgetting.”


I tense then force myself to relax.  I cannot be angry: Tess has had fewer years to manufacture memories.

“I try to remember her face, Daddy.  But it’s going away.  It’s like the pieces of her are falling off.  I can see the parts, but I can’t put them all together anymore.” 

I picture the curve at the tip of Liese’s  nose.  The long red hair.   Her eyes.  Green and fiery.  Irish. 
I put my hand against Tess’s chest.  “She’s in here, Baby.  You’ll never forget the love.  Never.”  I blink back tears, hold her tight, wonder how in God’s name I’ve allowed myself to wallow so deep in my own depression that I’ve started to neglect my children.  “Go get Mommy’s brush.”

She slips off my lap and stares at me wide-eyed.  Liese’s possessions have been off limits since the accident. 

“It’s OK.”  I run a hand across her tiny back, make a mental promise to myself to take her shopping next weekend.   She returns to my lap and hands me the brush.  I pull a strand of Liese’s hair from the brush and curl it around my finger.

“Daddy?” 

“Yeah?”

“Are we going to be OK?”

“I hope so.”  I begin working the knots from Tess’s hair, gently tugging, one hand against her head.  When I am through, Tess skips to the mirror to examine her reflection.  Her red hair bounces and sways the way her mother’s did.  “You look just like her, Tess.  You know that?”

She turns and gives me a shy smile.

"Let’s go make a cup of cocoa.”

“Should I wake David?”

“Not tonight.  Tonight, it’ll be just us.”

The kitchen light feels too bright at this hour.  The clock over the sink ticks too loudly.  Tess measures out cocoa and milk; salt and vanilla. 

“Be right back,” I whisper.

“OK, Daddy.”

I return to the bedroom and open the top right drawer of my dresser.  I reach to the back of the drawer; take out the last pair of socks.  I remove the bottle tucked inside.  I run my thumb along the cut glass, feel the weight of it in my palm. 
If you’d asked me six months ago what my favorite possession was, I would’ve answered without hesitation, “the Ferrari.”  The Ferrari was red and fast and powerful.  It took me away from the troubles that seemed, back then, insurmountable: The credit card bill.  The water in the basement.  The demands of parenthood.  Behind the wheel of the Ferrari, I could forget everything.

I remove the cap from the bottle in my hand and inhale deeply.  I smell lemon and musk.  I smell Liese.

This was her only extravagance.  And now it is mine. 

My children don’t know it.  My sister doesn’t know it.  Even the therapist that my in-laws insisted upon doesn’t know it.  I keep it to myself: My greatest possession in life is a half-empty bottle of perfume my dead wife used to wear.  Every night, just before I go to bed, I dab a bit on my pillow to color my dreams.

Because I’m scared of forgetting, too.

“Daddy?”

Tess stands in the doorway.  “Cocoa’s ready.”

“OK.”

She steps in.  “What are you doing?”

It’s unfair, really.  Keeping this from her when her image of her mother has morphed into a Picasso.  “Did you know that smell carries memories?”  I open my hand, reveal the magic within. 

She leans forward and sniffs.

“That’s Mommy.”

I put the bottle into her hand.  “You take it, Tess.  Mommy would want you to wear it.”  I’m sure my sister will have something to say about an eight year old wearing hundred dollar perfume.  And somehow, this pleases me. 

I help her dab a little behind her ears and bring her close.  “Let’s go get our cocoa.”

We drop a handful of marshmallows in each mug.  I pull a box of cookies from the cupboard.  Tess takes a sip of cocoa.  

“Hey, Daddy?” 

“Yeah, Tess.”  I smile at the chocolate moustache she wears.

“I think we’re going to be OK.”

I nod.  “Me too.”

“And Daddy?”

“Mmmm?”  I rub my eyes, glance at the clock. 

“When I’m a hundred years old, my memory of you will smell like cocoa.”

And somehow that makes me laugh and cry at the same time.   
 

Note: This was written for Sandra's Writing Workshop.

Labels:

Writing in the Margins, Bursting at the Seams: To Color My Dreams

Monday, July 2, 2012

To Color My Dreams


I lie in my bed, heart pounding, wondering what it is that has awakened me.  I stare into the dark, listening and waiting, trying to make sense of my confusion.  Is there a raccoon at the bird feeder again?  Trouble at work?  I rise and go to the window.  Part the curtains and peer into the darkness.

There is nothing.

I turn to the bed and I am flooded with memories.

 “Daddy?”

I switch on the light.  She stands there at the door, in pajamas too small.  Her hair is knotted.  I wonder if she brushed her teeth before she went to bed.  I wonder when she went to bed.  If.  I sit in the rocking chair Liese bought for my thirty-eighth birthday and pat my knee.  Tess wiggles her way onto my lap and leans against my chest. 

“I’m afraid, Daddy.”  She sticks her thumb in her mouth, a habit my sister comments on every time she stops over with another one of her crappy casseroles.

I begin rocking.  “What are you scared of, Baby?”

She pulls the thumb from her mouth to whisper.  “Forgetting.”


I tense then force myself to relax.  I cannot be angry: Tess has had fewer years to manufacture memories.

“I try to remember her face, Daddy.  But it’s going away.  It’s like the pieces of her are falling off.  I can see the parts, but I can’t put them all together anymore.” 

I picture the curve at the tip of Liese’s  nose.  The long red hair.   Her eyes.  Green and fiery.  Irish. 
I put my hand against Tess’s chest.  “She’s in here, Baby.  You’ll never forget the love.  Never.”  I blink back tears, hold her tight, wonder how in God’s name I’ve allowed myself to wallow so deep in my own depression that I’ve started to neglect my children.  “Go get Mommy’s brush.”

She slips off my lap and stares at me wide-eyed.  Liese’s possessions have been off limits since the accident. 

“It’s OK.”  I run a hand across her tiny back, make a mental promise to myself to take her shopping next weekend.   She returns to my lap and hands me the brush.  I pull a strand of Liese’s hair from the brush and curl it around my finger.

“Daddy?” 

“Yeah?”

“Are we going to be OK?”

“I hope so.”  I begin working the knots from Tess’s hair, gently tugging, one hand against her head.  When I am through, Tess skips to the mirror to examine her reflection.  Her red hair bounces and sways the way her mother’s did.  “You look just like her, Tess.  You know that?”

She turns and gives me a shy smile.

"Let’s go make a cup of cocoa.”

“Should I wake David?”

“Not tonight.  Tonight, it’ll be just us.”

The kitchen light feels too bright at this hour.  The clock over the sink ticks too loudly.  Tess measures out cocoa and milk; salt and vanilla. 

“Be right back,” I whisper.

“OK, Daddy.”

I return to the bedroom and open the top right drawer of my dresser.  I reach to the back of the drawer; take out the last pair of socks.  I remove the bottle tucked inside.  I run my thumb along the cut glass, feel the weight of it in my palm. 
If you’d asked me six months ago what my favorite possession was, I would’ve answered without hesitation, “the Ferrari.”  The Ferrari was red and fast and powerful.  It took me away from the troubles that seemed, back then, insurmountable: The credit card bill.  The water in the basement.  The demands of parenthood.  Behind the wheel of the Ferrari, I could forget everything.

I remove the cap from the bottle in my hand and inhale deeply.  I smell lemon and musk.  I smell Liese.

This was her only extravagance.  And now it is mine. 

My children don’t know it.  My sister doesn’t know it.  Even the therapist that my in-laws insisted upon doesn’t know it.  I keep it to myself: My greatest possession in life is a half-empty bottle of perfume my dead wife used to wear.  Every night, just before I go to bed, I dab a bit on my pillow to color my dreams.

Because I’m scared of forgetting, too.

“Daddy?”

Tess stands in the doorway.  “Cocoa’s ready.”

“OK.”

She steps in.  “What are you doing?”

It’s unfair, really.  Keeping this from her when her image of her mother has morphed into a Picasso.  “Did you know that smell carries memories?”  I open my hand, reveal the magic within. 

She leans forward and sniffs.

“That’s Mommy.”

I put the bottle into her hand.  “You take it, Tess.  Mommy would want you to wear it.”  I’m sure my sister will have something to say about an eight year old wearing hundred dollar perfume.  And somehow, this pleases me. 

I help her dab a little behind her ears and bring her close.  “Let’s go get our cocoa.”

We drop a handful of marshmallows in each mug.  I pull a box of cookies from the cupboard.  Tess takes a sip of cocoa.  

“Hey, Daddy?” 

“Yeah, Tess.”  I smile at the chocolate moustache she wears.

“I think we’re going to be OK.”

I nod.  “Me too.”

“And Daddy?”

“Mmmm?”  I rub my eyes, glance at the clock. 

“When I’m a hundred years old, my memory of you will smell like cocoa.”

And somehow that makes me laugh and cry at the same time.   
 

Note: This was written for Sandra's Writing Workshop.

Labels:

13 Comments:

At July 2, 2012 at 1:38 PM , Anonymous Annabelle said...

Oh, so sweet and so sad. I think I feel sorriest for the narrator -- his real understanding of his loss is tragic.

 
At July 3, 2012 at 12:15 AM , Anonymous Gillmojo said...

That was beautiful. You are so right in memories being evoked by scents. My dad will always be car oil and truck interior, my Aunt Anne is lemon plants, my granddad, mint, all bringing wonderful associations, sweet memories. I love how you also pick up the innocent wisdom of children. So often they know what to say, what to do without any effort. I think this family will indeed be ok *smile*

 
At July 3, 2012 at 5:19 AM , Anonymous Mary said...

This would be a wonderful first chapter to a book. Very poignant; you've captured and portrayed the emotion. Well, well done.

 
At July 3, 2012 at 5:56 AM , Anonymous jaum said...

Could have called this "September Song" You really pack emotions into the memories. A great universal appeal.

 
At July 3, 2012 at 8:11 AM , Anonymous Kathy Combs said...

I felt all the emotion in each of your words and felt tears in my eyes. Beautifully written and so very poignant. Brilliantly done.

Kathy
http://gigglingtruckerswife.blogspot.com

 
At July 4, 2012 at 8:58 AM , Anonymous Sandra Tyler said...

I'm speechless. This superb. So well done. The details are just perfect. And the sentiment...so heartbreaking, I'm literally crying. I'm going through issues with my own ailing mom so I'm on the edge of tears these days, but really, this is priceless. I hope you can develop it into something longer. Please submit more moments from these characters to my next workshops. Or whatever you want -- you are a treat to read.

 
At July 4, 2012 at 11:36 AM , Anonymous Amcdonough84 said...

Beautifully done, Kelly

 
At July 7, 2012 at 1:08 AM , Anonymous November Rain (k~) said...

You most certainly captured the emotional aspect of the details you shared in this story, but more than that you gave us the room, and a hot cup of cocoa to take with us.

 
At July 7, 2012 at 8:04 AM , Anonymous Wisper said...

This is an incredible piece! I love how you've captured both sides of it without blurring the two points of view.

 
At July 7, 2012 at 8:13 AM , Anonymous Stephanie B. said...

Nicely done. Scent is a powerful conjurer of memory. Great details, "in pajamas too small," "pieces of her are falling off." Great piece.

 
At July 7, 2012 at 9:44 AM , Anonymous Lucy Sparks said...

Wow! I don't even know where to begin. I love this story. I want to read more and how this daughter and father move past this. Excellent.

 
At July 7, 2012 at 10:23 AM , Anonymous ElaineLKehoe said...

Oh, what a lovely story! "My memory of you will smell like cocoa." Such a perfect line to end this. This is so well written, and yes, you're right--smell is our most powerful sense and can evoke strong memories. This is such a lovely portrait of a father-daughter moment and the shared fear of forgetting. And the ending is consoling--we understand that neither of them will forget. This is so wonderful to read. I look forward to reading more of your work.

 
At July 7, 2012 at 12:09 PM , Anonymous idiosyncratic eye said...

There are times and places for eight year olds to wear $100 perfume and this is one of them. Your dialogue is exquisite. :)

 

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