Thirty-Nine Six O’Clocks and Counting

October 14th

This is stupid. Why am I doing this?

Yeah-yeah, I know, Dr. Parks said so.

Well, she actually said that I should write down everything I’d tell you if you were still here.

Like I said – stupid.

Apparently, this makes the whole thing easier to go through.

I don’t wanna go through it.

I want you to come home.

It supposedly takes the "abstract feeling" of grief away. But you're gone. There’s nothing "abstract" about it.

You were here, and now you’re not.

That’s it.

*

October 21st

Dr. Parks asked me if I had written anything to you in the last week.

I said yes.

I did write down that I think it was stupid.

So, I didn’t lie... technically.

I don’t think she believed me. She then suggested I jot down everything I loved and miss about you.

Loved. ddd — as in, in the past. Like there’s no more loving now.

What good is it going to do? Bring you back?

No.

You’d still be gone.

Doesn’t matter what I love.

Or loved.

*

You promised you wouldn’t leave me.

You promised you’d always be there.

Did that promise mean nothing?

When Mom left, you said I could always count on you!

Was that just a lie?

Where are you now?

You promised!

You said you’d be back by six!

Well, thirty-nine six o’clocks have come and gone.

You’re still gone.

You died.

You fucking died!

.

.

.

...I’m sorry, Dad.

I’m so sorry...

See? Writing doesn’t do anything good.

I’m sorry I said that, Daddy.

*

October 22nd

I'm so sorry, Dad... if only I could...

I should have told you not to go to work that day...

I had a day off from school, and you did ask me if I wanted you to stay home with me...

I had plans with Emma, so I said no.

Why did I say no...

...

Daddy, I'm so-so sorry...

*

You always told me, "It doesn’t matter if you fall—just promise me you’ll get back up."

Dad... I feel like I’ve lost my legs. I cannot stand. There’s nothing left to stand on.

You always helped me...

Dad... please, I can’t do this without you.

I can’t...

I don’t know...

*

It’s stupid advice! To write down what I miss. It makes everything even worse. Everything I could possibly write is gone. I can never get it back. You... I can never get you back...

I can never dance with you on my wedding day.

We’ve been practicing since I was five. Remember? You saw me staring at a father-daughter dance scene in some movie. Then you bowed and asked me for a dance. You lifted me up, so I was standing on your toes, and we waltzed through the living room. I felt like I was a fairytale princess.

Every now and then, we danced to the old retro music you blasted when making dinner. At some point, you started teaching me steps so I didn’t have to stand on your feet anymore. So I’d be prepared when one day the real father-daughter dance comes.

That will never happen now.

Thanks for the shitty advice, Dr. Parks... for making me miss things I never even had.

*

October 23rd

Today, I...

No.

I can’t.

*

October 24th

Daddy, I miss you...

*

November 10th

It’s Sunday morning. I’ve been neglecting our Sunday pancake tradition (and this journal now, too) for weeks, but I did it today. For you.

Happy birthday, Daddy.

I'm sitting here in my usual chair, looking at a pile of perfect pancakes... and I hate them.

I hate how they’re not burnt on the edges.

I hate how they are perfectly round – not those weird lumpy shapes that used to look like countries on a map.

There are no round countries. How am I supposed to play the pancake-country game like that?

Remember the first time I caught you making up a country because you couldn’t find a real one the pancake looked like? I declared myself the winner of that week’s game on the spot.

I don’t feel like a winner today.

Will I ever again?

*

Still November 10th, later.

Dad, when will this stop?

The pain?

The aching?

The constant gut-punching?

I hear a stupid joke, and I instinctively find myself thinking – I’ll tell you later, I know you’ll love this one.

And as soon as the thought ends, it hits.

No.

No, I won’t.

There’s no more later.

Not for you. Not for us.

I'm gasping for air, but there is no air. You took it all with you...

I still keep counting all the dogs I see on my way to school and back, forgetting there’s no one to play that game with either.

No other players.

Just me... counting dogs.

When I was little, you always said I'm a gold-medal-worthy dog-spotter. But I know half the time you just pretended not to see them so I’d get the points. And I accepted the charity points. But only because I saw how happy it made you when I won.

It’s not fun anymore.

I don’t want to win.

I don’t care if I lose.

I just want you back.

*

November 15th

Daddy, please come home...

*

November 19th

Today was a shitty bad day.

*

November 25th

I went back to Dr. Parks’ office today.

I was sure she was going to be mad at me for skipping so many appointments. She wasn’t.

She just asked me one question – one simple question – and I still couldn’t answer it.

"How are you doing, Iris?"

I just sat there, throat prickly, forcing myself to breathe.

How the hell am I supposed to answer that?

Good? That’s a lie.

Bad? Is that what she wants to hear? If she’s not seeing it herself and I need to tell her, she's not very good at her job.

And, yes, Dad, I said "hell." I’m sorry. I’m seventeen now, I can say that.

Yeah-yeah-yeah, I know: "Just because I can, doesn’t mean I should."

After a couple of minutes of silence, she asked how I had celebrated my birthday.

I hadn’t.

Honestly, before today, I didn't even remember last week was my birthday... Aunt Lily must have forgotten, too...

Then we talked about school for a bit, and that was it.

Before I left, she asked how we used to celebrate my birthday.

I told her about the slumber parties with my friends and about the second celebration with just us – our movie marathon, the weekend between our birthdays, to celebrate both our days.

I told her about the microwave cheese popcorn you hated because it made the whole house smell like old socks. But you made it anyway because it was my favourite.

And I told her about the tiramisu cake – the one from that little Italian bakery around the corner. I told her how you bought an entire cake and we ate it all, just the two of us.

She gave me homework to re-watch a movie we both loved and then a second one – a new one – you haven’t seen but would have liked, as a late celebration.

*

December 1st

I watched "Singing in the rain" last night.

It was still good, but I liked it better with you.

Part of the fun was singing along together.

I didn’t sing yesterday.

The movie was still good, though.

Do you remember how one night, a few summers ago, we walked home from the movies in the rain, and you tried to do that famous lamppost scene but slipped and fell into a puddle? And then, through laughter, you splattered me with the water and said "Honey, do as I say, not as I do," when I started splashing water at you, too.

I watched the movies like she’d asked.

I picked ones you definitely would have liked.

The second one was the new James Bond.

I even made the smelly popcorn and bought the cake.

I think you used to eat most of it...

It didn’t bring you back.

You're still gone.

...

But you were there. For a moment.

*

December 3rd

I went to see Dr. Parks again.

I told her about the movies I'd watched.

She didn't ask many questions this time,

but she smiled a little.

I hadn't seen that before.

*

December 11th

I think I broke the record – mine and yours – 39 dogs in one day.

*

December 24th

Dad, how much does Santa pay to park his sleigh?

...

...

...

Nothing. It’s on the house.

I know! So bad! I knew you would have loved it!

I counted eleven dogs on my walk to the Christmas market. One wore a Santa hat. I hate that you didn’t see him. He was such a good boy!

I miss you, so-so much.

Merry Christmas, Dad!