Inside there are four pairs of socks, quality socks that haven’t come from the dollar store, socks without type on the toes. He’s rolled them into sock balls.
At home, my mother has laid out one of her mother’s dresses, a gift for me, and my father has finally conceded that old journal of his. Happy birthday, Ruth, the Post-it affixed to it says.
Another Post-it opens to this page:
Today you asked why it was that people say cloudless but not cloudful. Today you made clear you did not know there was a difference in the spellings of “pitchers” and “pictures.” You scraped seeds off of bagels and planted them in the flower bed out front. I didn’t have the heart to tell you that there’s no such thing as a bagel tree. Today I thought: I’m nuts—I’m just nuts—about you.
July 10
Something else I appreciate about hangovers: you are given the chance to value your regular things. Water, for instance, becomes so delicious and appealing.
I like also that having a terrible day pretty much guarantees that the next day will be much, much better.
“Ruth,” says the voice on our machine. It’s Theo. “Call me, would you?”
At the café, there are pastries in the display case—croissants and bagels and bear claws—that look like uncomfortable people in a waiting room, trapped under bad fluorescent lighting.
The man in line in front of me orders a “small nonfat cap.”
A woman orders a salad, rudely.
“Hello, shorty,” says a lady to a dachshund outside the café door. “Hello!”
I have a staring contest with a gazing baby, and the way the baby, a fellow born human, looks at me it’s like he is seeing a deep hidden thing that all the grown people can’t. I look away first.
I won’t call Theo. Because here’s what I figure.
One of us could say: That was a mistake.
One of us could say: I like you.
One of us could say: I was drunk. Let’s please forget it ever happened.
The other person could agree or disagree. The other person could waffle.
We could say these things, but what would be the point?
If it’s presumptuous of me to think, at some future point, things won’t work out, then, yes, I am being presumptuous.
Better presumptuous, I think, than a fucking sucker.
Because I’m through doing things that don’t count. I’m through with things that don’t add up or amount. I’m just through.
What Dad wrote:
Today I made you pancakes the shape of Mickey Mouse and you said NO, it was a butterfly. It had a fat body and small wings.
Today you asked me what does “seduce” mean? S-e-d-u-c-e? What does it mean?
Today you bit off the corners of your sandwich and announced you were taking the edge off.
Today you pronounced “worse” to rhyme with “horse.”
Today I didn’t catch you before you swallowed your chewing gum. I looked away for a second and then it was gone. I’m sorry.
Today was your birthday, and when it was time for you to blow out the candles, you wouldn’t. Time was running out and you were anxious about it.
I don’t know what to wish for, you told me sadly, after the candles had burned down to nothing.
That’s okay, I told you. We put new ones in, and you successfully blew out this new set.
Today you mixed pretend Bloody Marys and used Scrabble tile holders for make-believe celery. It reminded me: I don’t not have a drinking problem.
Today you put sand in the microwave. You said you were making glass.
Today you called your grandmother “small mom.”
Today we walked past a café’s colorful chalkboard and you asked me, “Why is that sun wearing a bra on his face?”
“Those are sunglasses,” I told you.
Today we read aloud together and you pronounced “union” like “onion.” A more perfect onion. You read “apply” like it was about apples. You are so happy to be learning to read.
Today I thought of what I would give to have time just stop here. You’re out of my league. I’m waiting for the day you’re going to leave me.
I’d give:
All the money I’ve got. My entire set of teeth. That special silver dollar your grandfather gave me and said would be worth $300,000 by the time you were in college. Any of it, all of it, just to keep you here.
July 11
Today Dad says—about the last sizes of lumber he needs—could you write it all down, so I won’t forget?
Write it all down, is what he says.
Okay, Dad, I say, and do:
This morning Mom was making a sandwich and you said, Swiss cheese holes are called eyes. Your cheese watches you.
Today I cooked salmon and you said it was esculent.
Today you’re wearing your old glasses, with the old prescription.
Today you tried that old trick you used to do. You would uncap beer with a single sheet of paper. You attempted it today with a bottle of ginger ale but couldn’t manage. Today I wished that you had taught me.
Today you said, “I’m shitting bubbles. What could it mean?”
I’m no expert, so I called to make the appointment with Dr. Lung. We were all set to go, until I remembered that I’d dropped the remainder of the bar of soap into the toilet, by accident.
“You’ll be okay, Dad,” I told you, “and here’s why.”
Today you sliced into an onion that looked like Batman.
Today you said the sunshine was a stick of butter. “You could cut through that with a knife,” you said.
Tonight I peeled peaches and we sat beneath the mostly done pergola, and in the moonlight your face was tired and lined like the underside of a cabbage leaf and I wondered what I looked like to you.
Today you wandered to the park, and I found you sitting on the sloping part of the hill, in the clover blossoms, eating from a big bag of chicharrónes and drinking a Coke and watching kids on the diamond throw a ball around. The vendor had wheeled his cart right up beside you, keeping an eye out, like a stealthy babysitter. He gave me a small nod when I approached, handed me a Coke to match yours.
“How long has he been here?” I asked—meaning you, how long had you been here—but the vendor only shrugged, as if to say, not to worry, it had been no trouble at all.
When I sat down beside you, we clinked our Cokes together; you handed me a chicharrón. We watched the kids. You mentioned that there were some things on your mind, but lately you were having trouble getting to them—accessing them. You had the feeling that all the thoughts were in a box covered in tape, and the trouble was there was too much tape, and the trouble was you didn’t have the proper tools to access them—no scissors and no knife—and it was a lot of trouble—every day it was new trouble—trying to find the end of the tape.
You told me that in your twenties you had not believed in God, and for a little while you believed in sit-ups and eating right and meditation, and for a time after that you believed in me and Linus and my mother, and here you were, now, unable to open a box that had been taped shut, a box belonging to you.
Here you were. Here we both were.
You were saying all this, and even as you were saying it, I was trying to figure out how I’d respond when you asked, “Remind me. What kind of ball is that?”