a promise broken, A Promise made
I’ll be with you, always.
Tyre squeals will never be the same for you.
That protest of rubber against tarmac; their surreal moan, an ode to Banshees.
The sound will always be a reminder,
Of what you didn’t do — of what you did instead.
All she wanted was to play …
Oh, you’re sobbing now? How does that help?
Clean the spittle off your beard.
Look at me.
Look. At. Me.
I watch through the windows your eyes have become, another part of your soul crumble, as the realization hits again.
You’ve ruined her life.
I smile.
A beeping, incessant; and you’re suddenly beside her. Hands — yours, reach for her, only to jerk back. Again and again. I see your need to comfort her. I see your fear of making things worse.
The nurse is suddenly there, the sharp beeping goes away. He didn’t have to do anything. It was just a flutter. Her breathing is steady now; your daughter is fine.
But you’re not.
I watch anguish blossom on your features, replacing the wide-eyed panic rooted there moments before; replacing the brief relief at hearing the nurse’s words.
I watch your helplessness, I dance in its currents.
“Daddy’s busy, baby. Go play by yourself.”
You rejected and permitted her at the same time: the whole world was your little girl’s, courtesy of her daddy.
She went outside, naturally.
Oh, you locked the front door; she just knew how to open it. Kids are curious like that. You should know, you’re a parent aren’t you?
She was having so much fun with that big colorful ball. Squealing with delight in that warm, late afternoon sun. Her two-year old imagination filling the world with far more treasure than the plain repetitiveness us old, grumpy folk see.
So when a chance gust of wind blew her multicolored friend into the street, it was only natural she went after it. What sort of friend would she be otherwise?
The street wasn’t busy — it never is. It was a good neighborhood. It’s not your daughter’s fault that someone was texting and driving.
She called for you, you know. After she lay broken in the street. A soft ‘daddy’. Not mummy, or her best friend. You.
Look at how you fail her, time and again. The mechanical wheeze of the machine helping her breathe punctuating your incompetence.
You promised to keep her safe.
Unlike you though, I don’t break promises.
I’ll be with you, always.
When the machines keeping your daughter alive wail a complication. I’ll be there.
When she awakens and is confused about where she is, why she’s in pain. I’ll be there.
On her road to recovery, as her bruised body struggles to respond to instructions from her mind. I’ll be there.
When she fully recovers, but not quite. I’ll be there.
I’ll be the needles in your chest, the weight around your neck, the taste of bile at the back of your throat. The banners of your incompetence.
I am guilt. I’ll be with you, till the day you die. I promise that.
Oh, look. Here comes her mother. Meet her eyes, I dare you.
image credit: Caroline Hernandez at unsplash.com
