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She’s gentle about it though. Soft, just like her tears. Not like Dad with his big, rough hands that smell of gas stations and something sweeter. Not a good kind of sweet, like candy or maple syrup, but a yucky kind of sweet, almost like metal. It always made my belly get all sloshy inside when I smelled it on him, and he’s been smelling like that a lot lately. All summer long.
“It’s okay now, kid,” Momma tells me, her voice shaking. “It’s all going to be okay.”
My whole body is tremblin’—just like her fingers on my shoulders, just like her voice. My head’s rocking side to side, and questions start tumblin’ from my lips, faster than I can keep up with:
“When’s he comin’ back?”
“Why didn’t he take me with him?”
“Where’s he going? I wanna go.”
“When’s he comin’ back?”
Over and over and over again I ask, ’til words start running together, and Momma’s hushing me, and I can’t catch my breath, and she’s squeezing me tight just like that time I was sick with the itches.
I don’t understand.
Dad always takes me with him. I’m his helper. His little man.
The grocery store.
The garage.
Fishin’…though we never catch anything.
He always takes me.
It’s our guy time.
“Men need to be alone sometimes. It’s good for us.”
He’d tell me funny stories and let me help carry things. Teach me things. Pat my head and tell me I’m a good boy.
And if we were at the river down the road, he’d nap or smoke or drink with a fishing rod in his hand, while I’d play superheroes in the woods, throwing rocks and stuff and practicing my super-strength. Or I’d go in the water, and practice holding my breath underwater. But only if it was low enough for me to stand in. I didn’t know how to swim yet, but I was learnin’ and practicin’ and bein’ real careful.
He was cool like that, always lettin’ me do things on my own. Not like Momma. She was a worrier.
Too soft.
“I want Dad!” I scream, shoving away from Momma.
But she’s bigger than me. Tougher, even though I’m a boy. Tougher than I think Dad even realized, though not as big and tough as him. No one was as big and tough as Dad.
She wraps her arms around my little wigglin’ body, and holds me as I scream and say things that leave a yucky taste in my mouth. I don’t even know what I’m saying. I just can’t stop.
I can’t breathe.
But she never lets go, even when I hit at her. Even when I say words that I know hurt her.
“You’re going to be okay,” she says.
“I promise,” she tells me.
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” she chants over and over and over again.
And she never lets me go.
Even after I stop fighting her.
