It’s Always the Past that is Present

Thirty-two. 11,680 days plus 8. There have been 8 leap years since 1985, so there have been 11,688 days since I was born. Or, really, I should say, from ’85 till my last birthday.

Maybe … today I go back in time. Go back into my childhood. Is that where I want to start, in the past? So much of the present is the past.

How many times have I relitigated the past, my past. I’ve lost count. What’s the point?

Take pictures of the now? Done. Document the wrinkles? The loose skin? The greying hair? The flow of time and space? We are moving in space as I type. Write? Type.

Tackle the hard questions? The political ones? The familial questions? None-sentences. Half-questions.

I’ll start in guilt. Isn’t that my local swimming hole? Yes, guilt—guilt will do. I know you well. I know your contours. I know how to shade you in to create deep three-dimensional shapes. How to define you. I know your synonyms. I know your versatility.

Lately, I’ve been feeling guilty about my daughters. I see those images from Google from several years ago and I remember that I wasn’t there. That I was busy at work or my other job or my other, other job. I remember I was busy training soccer because that was the other, other, other job.

I remember being angry then — so, back to the past. See. It’s always the past that is present.

I was angry because I was forced to work all the time. I wanted to spend time with my daughter, and, later, daughters but I had to work. I was angry at my wife. I would never tell her that because it wasn’t her fault. We both wanted the girls to be cared for by her. Not some stranger. Her. So how could I be angry? I couldn’t.

But I was.

And, so, I worked and I worked and I worked. Hotel, Not-for-profit, Soccer, extra-curricular, odd jobs, ACT, SAT, etc. 12 hour days; 15 hour days. I provided but I wanted to be home with my newborn. I wanted to be home with my toddler. I want to be home with my daughters.

So the guilt bubbles forth from deep within me. Because, I don’t feel like a good dad. That’s how I have been feeling. Like a bad dad. Hard. Strict. That isn’t what I wanted. Now, I work to not be my mother.

“Eyes. Mouth. Ears. Nose. Eyebrows. Ojos. Boca. Orejas. Nariz. Sejas.”

1,895 days in 5 years. Rearrange 1985. That’s how old my oldest is today.