Yesterday, in honor of the Summer Olympics I strove to complete the day’s events even though a podium was highly unlikely.
The morning began with the dark echoes of harsh words from a disappointed mistress accusing me of being the asshole I am not. It was quickly amplified by my nine year old son’s PMS simulation. Nothing that happened or that I could have happen between 7am and 9 am could satisfy him, please him, placate him. When I left him at the day camp, Noah punished me by not saying goodbye.
I spent the rest of the day attempting to not transform into a raging lunatic. How easy it would have been. Especially after I was compelled to spend $38.84 to take delivery of a package for Noah from his crazy Mother in Belgium (clinically crazy, not just my opinion). She failed to pay the right sum for shipping, didn’t fill out the custom’s forms, didn’t list the contents etc. In all likelihood what was inside the parcel was a few dollars worth of candy and ill fitting clothes that Noah would scoff at, as he did last time he received a parcel a year ago. I talked myself into a form of empathy for the poor schizophrenic bitch.
Oops! Bad boy… bad thoughts… bad boy!
As I crossed a street, a commando cyclist forced me into an intricate choreography to avoid collision. I yelled after him. He gave me the finger without slowing down. Luckily Montréal has strict gun laws.
Time. Time. I kept telling myself. Time will pass, everything passes with time, good and bad.
I tried to write all morning. Thousands of words, all of which seemed to be dead on arrival. Lunch was tasteless. I pumped beauty into my ears by way of a Phillip Glass concerto. it pooled in my cochlea without reaching my mind.
The moment in the park, before picking up Noah is usually where I meditate and find the energy to continue. Instead I heard the couple sitting on the grass nearby, arguing, tearing off their respective scabs to show the other how painful it was. A well known crazy man pushed his cart, filled with his whole life, while yelling at the malevolent shadows that were responsible for his misery. They were as real to him as mine were for me. Pigeons attacked sparrows to steal crumbs of bread. Dogs chased squirrels. Cops busted a pot smoker.
I left the park trailing webs of sorrow and the unbearable heaviness of my being.
When I got to day camp, the Canadian women’s soccer team had had a victory snatched from them by a referee bent on ensuring that the No.! team (the USA) went on to the finals.
Rage against the machine. Rage period. I descended into the basement gym like a dead man walking.
Noah was running feral with a group of kids in the gym. I waved at him. He waved back. He picked up his stuff with unusual efficiency.
We took a first step on the staircase.
“Excuse me, dad.”
“For this morning. I’m really sorry.”
I ruffle his sweaty, sunscreen-sticky curls. He briefly presses his whole body against mine.
Oh! He had probably spent the whole day waiting to make it right.
By the time we got home, we were both in an exhausted, comfortable silence.
Oh! His mom’s package?
Filled with 5 dollars worth of candy… and a letter telling him how much she thought about him all day every day. Like a bolt of lightning, I suddenly felt how painful it must be to not see Noah for more than six years.
Time. Everything passes, the good and the bad.
“Dad, these are my favorite candies.”
That was yesterday.
Today has just begun …
“Dad, dad, I’m so excited, because you know….”
Today is not yesterday. Must send a note to his Mother to thank her for the parcel.