Still Trying

She was seven years old when she dreamt that God looked just like her Daddy, buttoned up in a blue-grey cardigan, a mystery. The dream was itself so real that she remained certain that he must be twins with God. In all honesty, her father was a successful businessman, so his God status wasn’t out of the question. He could often be found sitting at his wooden desk opening important envelopes with a long sterling silver letter opener. Its shine attracted her. "Don’t touch that sweetheart, it’s sharp, you’ll cut yourself."

Sometimes he would be half watching a football game and reading while the snow blustered outside. And she’d try to get his attention by pulling down on his paper and making it crunch. "Daddy! Look outside! It’s snowing! My foot prints are invisible now!" "That’s nice beautiful. Now don’t crinkle the paper, your daddy needs to read." Then straightening it out he’d scan it like he was holding a top secret treasure map that she was too young to understand. And so she’d talk for awhile, telling lies just to see if he’d catch her. And boy were they whoppers of lies. She still flushes when she thinks of them. Like the one about the jewelry box she and Elisa found on the bank by the creek filled with diamonds and pearls, and how they later traded the loot for all the Disney stickers in the dime store. Or the poisoned Halloween candy that she almost ate last month. "Thank God Theresa found out a crazy person got to my candy bar else I’d be Dead!" Anything, she’d say anything just to hear him say "Oh my!" But she couldn’t find her way into him, and she knew that if she pulled at his paper again she’d be sent to her room. Plus she didn’t want to disappoint him. There was nothing worse than an "I’m disappointed in you" coming from him. And although she sometimes had the urge to tear that unreadable treasure map down and steal into him, she knew her limits.

When she grew tired of trying, she’d curl up on the worn leather couch beside him, and let the sounds in the room coo her. She’d hear his paper crinkle as he flipped pages or he’d clap or give an "AHHH!" in response to the game. And stirring she’d imagine he was talking to her, his voice mixed with the murmur of the sports caster’s lulling her further into sleep.

At night she could hear his slippers shuffling across the parquet floors. Sometimes he’d peek his head in to see if she was awake and then come in and sit on the edge of her twin canopy bed and pat her until she fell asleep. One night, she patted herself along with him, so when he left, she felt as if he was still right there with her, his hand gently tapping her side. The next day she marveled that she was able to trick herself and really feel like he actually stayed there beside her until she awoke. Every night thereafter she would try and pat herself on her thigh when she truly knew he wasn’t there, but it didn’t feel the same. It was just her own hand against her own small thigh, and she felt lonely. Sometimes she wondered why she continued this game at all, knowing full well that she could never trick herself again. Yet bedtime would come and like a metronome there she was, staring at the shadows on the walls, lightly drumming on her thigh and willing the illusion back. She knew it was silly. It made the empty silence of the room feel even bigger, yet something inside her still insisted on trying.