I just woke up after a silly little dream.
I dreamt I was a child, in the silly house I grew up in. I dreamt I was in the home’s little kitchen, with silly floral wallpaper, spotless, clutter-free countertops, and silly little magnets on the avocado refrigerator.
And my Father was there too, and he did something silly. He was so drunk, he accidentally grabbed me from behind and held a knife to my throat. He sounded really silly too, with the way he muttered like a growling animal. And when he threw me against the wall, that was really silly too because Mother had to patch the hole herself, then cover it with a picture because the wallpaper never quite “looked” right.
And you know what else was silly? In my dream I had the same smartphone I have now, as an adult, and that doesn’t make any sense at all because there weren’t any cell phones in the mid 1970s. It’s no wonder nobody answered when I tried so desperately to call them, before Father grabbed the phone from my tiny fingers, and threw THAT against the wall as well - after he smashed the China and glass coffee carafe, even harder then what he did to Mother, when she started to cry…
(Chuckling.)
That’s probably why she never came to me. She was just being silly, too. Both of my parents were always so…fucking…silly.
And the day that I tried to hug Father as a teen years later - sobbing violently - and begged him to PLEASE stop drinking because I was lonely, you know what he did? Huh? Well, let me tell you -
He stormed up to Mother, hit her across the face because she “never talked to the boy,” grabbed his keys, peeled out of the driveway, and left her alone and shaking - with no one to talk to but me.
And when SHE stormed up to me, slapped me across the face so hard, my head went sideways - then told me that it was MY fault Father went out drinking again - the silly little cunt grabbed her own fucking keys - and left me alone in the house, to think about what I’d done.
So when I saw the knife on the counter - the one that Father had used on me - it’s no fucking wonder that I picked it up, held out my wrist, and SWUNG it as hard as Father could swing, wanting my life to END at the age of thirteen.
But then something silly happened.
My other hand came to life on its own and STOPPED the knife COLD, before it broke the skin. I watched in serenity as the blade was placed gently back onto the counter, and I somebody who looked exactly like me walked calmly into my basement playroom and start tying up our Star Trek action figures with thread that we’d stolen from our Mother’s sewing kit.
That was so many silly years ago.
And there have been so many silly things that happened since then, like the two times I was in love in my twenties, with men who’d been infected with that silly HIV…
And now, in my 50s, as I’m surrounded by ten invisible people who will always protect me, I finally understand how silly my Father must have felt, when he accidentally drank himself to death all those years ago …
Of course, it’s a little surprising I’ve learned -
Cirrhosis isn’t silly at all.
In fact, it’s just the opposite of silly -
But at least I’ll soon be with the man who always LOVED me, in his own silly way, in his own silly way, in his own silly way ...
Silence.
So, THIS IS how Father must have really felt.
He didn’t feel ANYTHING at all about me -
Just as I feel nothing for my own, silly boy.
And as I watched my silly boy drink his first can of pop this morning, pouring the liquid into the glass I gave him - and downing the Coca-Cola in quick, little shots - I know that I’ve taught him the love that my own Father taught me, as his memory will always be three steps in front of me…
… forever in my silly broken heart 💔
- Sir Dave