He’d glance at here every once in a while as he read his book. A slight glance that just fit into his peripheral vision, a couple degrees away from being out of his pupil’s reach. They were fleeting, momentary snapshots that - while captured in less time than he could catch the breath she took from him - were permanently etched in the grooves of his brain.
It had been a year since her mother - his wife - had died. One year exactly. Every time he drove on the icy December road, just part of him wanted to violently steer off the road. His wife and he shared far too much in life - a house, a car, a daughter; their love their affection, their hopes, their dreams. For this past year, he had hoped they might share one more thing - in death.
But every time he clutched the wheel in his hands - every time he had the power to take his life - he couldn’t. They say your whole life flashes before your eyes when you die - that you see every memory, every thought, every recollection. But in that moment, with his hands on the wheel, he found that only to be myth. Or, at the very least, a misconception. For in that moment with his hands on the wheel, he could only see his daughter. She was his life
He looked up from his book and at her in their living room. Her face would have been entirely in the dark of the December night had it not been for the lamp in the corner of the room illuminating her innocent sleeping face.
Never. Never could he leave her. His wife had left them, whether she wanted to or not. They had been a two-man unit ever since. THey say families grow close after a loss in the family. He didn’t quite understand why. Maybe it was because they need to comfort each other. maybe it was because they realized their own mortality and just once wanted to hear someone say “I love you” again. Right now, he didn’t care why. He just knew a special bond between them existed. He could never leave her.
It was late and she probably should have been sleeping in her bed to rest for the next day of school. But he just wanted to sit there and watch. The small hush of a draft whispered through the house, gently brushing the branches of their newly erected Christmas tree.
The chill prompted him to pick her up and take her back to her room. She had enough for one day. He lifted her with a brief, low grunt. He wasn’t quite as young as he used to be. Holding her along his body, he couldn’t help but remember the days where he could hold her in just one arm. He wondered where those days had gone.
Her silky blond hair had once been nothing more than a budding fuzz on her head. Now it was down beneath her shoulders, just has her mother’s hair had been. Her eyelids - held shut to protect her dreams from the danger of light - concealed her perfect brown eyes, which were just like her mother’s eyes. She had her mother’s hair, her mother’s eyes, and her mother’s perfectly proportional nose. She was - in almost every physical sense - his wife.
He laid her in her bed and tucked her in for the night. He walked out quietly and shut the door, turning the handle so the door wouldn’t make a loud click when it shut. THen he leaned back against the door and took a deep breath. He held it in with the hope that he could hold onto this moment. During this night in December, all was still and all remained unchanged - and that’s how he wanted to keep it.
He could never leave her. But he had to. Through every day he held on, but one day there will be a day where he could hold on no longer. Loss wasn’t what drained his soul - it was love. Every time he shows his love, time is taken away from him. Every kiss, every “Hello,” every “Goodbye,” every “I love you” had its own personal cost. You can only give someone so much of yourself before you lose ownership entirely.
There would come a day - he realized - where he will have shown as much love as he could show. And on that day, he would die. He exhaled. What kept him up at night wasn’t financial problems or job difficulties. It wasn’t even the longing to have his wife next to him just one more time to brush her hair, rub her nose, and stare into her eyes. It was the burden of the very idea that he would have no more love to show.
They say heartache is when you’re sad - so sad you can’t eat, you can’t drink, and you can’t sleep. Real heartache isn’t about being morose. Real heartache is when your heart skips a beat in the hope that the heart of another will beat for you, only to realize no other heart is out there.
He had tried counting, but he couldn’t keep up - his heart skipped too many beats in one day to even calculate. And this was his everyday. Each day was met with this heartache.
He walked down the hall into his own room, shutting his door just as carefully and quietly as he had shut his daughter’s. He crawled into his own bed, and once inside, stared up at the ceiling through the darkness.
So this was love, on a cold December night.
It had been a year since her mother - his wife - had died. One year exactly. Every time he drove on the icy December road, just part of him wanted to violently steer off the road. His wife and he shared far too much in life - a house, a car, a daughter; their love their affection, their hopes, their dreams. For this past year, he had hoped they might share one more thing - in death.
But every time he clutched the wheel in his hands - every time he had the power to take his life - he couldn’t. They say your whole life flashes before your eyes when you die - that you see every memory, every thought, every recollection. But in that moment, with his hands on the wheel, he found that only to be myth. Or, at the very least, a misconception. For in that moment with his hands on the wheel, he could only see his daughter. She was his life
He looked up from his book and at her in their living room. Her face would have been entirely in the dark of the December night had it not been for the lamp in the corner of the room illuminating her innocent sleeping face.
Never. Never could he leave her. His wife had left them, whether she wanted to or not. They had been a two-man unit ever since. THey say families grow close after a loss in the family. He didn’t quite understand why. Maybe it was because they need to comfort each other. maybe it was because they realized their own mortality and just once wanted to hear someone say “I love you” again. Right now, he didn’t care why. He just knew a special bond between them existed. He could never leave her.
It was late and she probably should have been sleeping in her bed to rest for the next day of school. But he just wanted to sit there and watch. The small hush of a draft whispered through the house, gently brushing the branches of their newly erected Christmas tree.
The chill prompted him to pick her up and take her back to her room. She had enough for one day. He lifted her with a brief, low grunt. He wasn’t quite as young as he used to be. Holding her along his body, he couldn’t help but remember the days where he could hold her in just one arm. He wondered where those days had gone.
Her silky blond hair had once been nothing more than a budding fuzz on her head. Now it was down beneath her shoulders, just has her mother’s hair had been. Her eyelids - held shut to protect her dreams from the danger of light - concealed her perfect brown eyes, which were just like her mother’s eyes. She had her mother’s hair, her mother’s eyes, and her mother’s perfectly proportional nose. She was - in almost every physical sense - his wife.
He laid her in her bed and tucked her in for the night. He walked out quietly and shut the door, turning the handle so the door wouldn’t make a loud click when it shut. THen he leaned back against the door and took a deep breath. He held it in with the hope that he could hold onto this moment. During this night in December, all was still and all remained unchanged - and that’s how he wanted to keep it.
He could never leave her. But he had to. Through every day he held on, but one day there will be a day where he could hold on no longer. Loss wasn’t what drained his soul - it was love. Every time he shows his love, time is taken away from him. Every kiss, every “Hello,” every “Goodbye,” every “I love you” had its own personal cost. You can only give someone so much of yourself before you lose ownership entirely.
There would come a day - he realized - where he will have shown as much love as he could show. And on that day, he would die. He exhaled. What kept him up at night wasn’t financial problems or job difficulties. It wasn’t even the longing to have his wife next to him just one more time to brush her hair, rub her nose, and stare into her eyes. It was the burden of the very idea that he would have no more love to show.
They say heartache is when you’re sad - so sad you can’t eat, you can’t drink, and you can’t sleep. Real heartache isn’t about being morose. Real heartache is when your heart skips a beat in the hope that the heart of another will beat for you, only to realize no other heart is out there.
He had tried counting, but he couldn’t keep up - his heart skipped too many beats in one day to even calculate. And this was his everyday. Each day was met with this heartache.
He walked down the hall into his own room, shutting his door just as carefully and quietly as he had shut his daughter’s. He crawled into his own bed, and once inside, stared up at the ceiling through the darkness.
So this was love, on a cold December night.