For My Father, Who Is Perpetual Sunlight
by Natalie Baldino
The fringes of a single memory cannot be tied together to form a cohesive whole. Rather, each part of the memory floats around the different units of the brain, aligning itself with pre-existing categories that make up the memory's different parts. The thoughts are not exclusive and cannot be contained. They are nebulous and moving. In this way, I recall my strongest memory of him, simply a memory of a memory. Even now, in preparation of revealing my thoughts, my skin feels too tightly stretched over my white bones and the blood running through my veins feels sticky and hot like early morning sap. But if I write down the memory, that will make it constant. It will turn into a photograph that I can hold with shaking fingertips. Through this act of consecration, I will remember you the same way every time.
The fifteen previous years, the coming of the season was predicted not by the calendar but by the bones. Winter could be felt. Hearts lurched in yearning of the home-made cookies and time at home with family. Winter took on a different meaning then; snow pants and wet socks; glistening outside and inside despite the cold that we kept out with muttered curses from my father while trying to light the fireplace.
We match what surrounds us.
The house was filled with the aroma of vanilla candles and a shabby pine tree which we always would forget to water, and so we became sensual and warm. We became scents; we became the texture of worn quilts and Santa sweaters. My sisters and I would fight over the Christmas decorations and over who would get to open presents first. The only thing greater than the participation was the anticipation. The only way the climax of the season could be better is if it never came at all; to be left in the continual joy of wondering what was awaiting us.
As time progressed and our bones aged, winter grew colder. Our bones still told of its coming, but in shaking gasps and wringing hands. We settled ourselves in for the season, muscles tensed in preparation of an ever-long chill. I remember friends telling me that we had simply grown up; Christmas no longer had the spark of excitement once Santa was non-existent and we grew to hate our mothers. I looked in the mirror and could no longer find that spark of my childhood in my irises. I could not find that glimmer in anyone but you.
I remember you clearly, not as you used to be but as you were then. I was told once that you were beautiful; swollen with your joy, your eyes glistening and your baritone voice sweet with the melancholia of old age. Those memories have been replaced now, save for a few flashbacks of happiness before my lingering sorrow. As of late I remember you soggy. Withered and decaying, your cells were ripped to shreds by an intruder lurking beneath your skin. For months, you lay in that hospital bed, yet the mood was still festive. Late September you arrived, your body synchronized to the lapse of the seasons. I was not in step with nature, only with myself. But I learned to be in sync with you as I watched them pump fluids out of your hip, the perpetual drip of liquidized nutrients sustaining you for months. I lived off of coffee, letting it barely provide substance for me as I rushed daily to your bedside and spent the remaining hours staring at my ceiling. They told us pancreatic cancer. White coats walking in with clipboards and hidden faces, the doctors murmured apologies and offered consolation only to your sobbing wife. I was the silent child who refused hugs and sentiment. They feel with their arms. I feel with my marrow; I let sorrow cling to my bones until it chokes me.
For months you remained in half-life, your soul being sucked out of you slowly. October passed with you nearly comatose. Disease had infected your blood stream and I couldn't stand to say your name. November came bearing glimmers of hope, but we were tricked in more ways than one. The white of the halls, the burning of antiseptic in my nose and the brightness of the fluorescent lights convinced me that autumn and winter had passed. I could have sworn that spring had come. Instead, the leaves were in the gutter and you were once again responsive. Weak, I asked too much of you; to sing my favorite songs, to play my favorite games. As you lay in your hospital bed, your body crinkled and writhed in attempt to maintain your pride. As autumn left and winter froze our hearts, yours beat less and less. You slept frequently and I watched your lips pucker with tiny bouts of air, your ribcage ebbing and flowing.
But I remember your hope, and I remember your courage as you received notice of fewer and fewer options for survival. I saw you cry for the first time. They would not give you surgery; they would not give you chemo. Their only gift to you was sympathy and a diminished life expectancy. Defeated and resigned, you returned home to complete the cycle.
I remember the night clearly. In my head, as each hour ticked, I juxtaposed this day from the same of years passed. No hot chocolate, no Christmas decorations, no joy rising like fireplace heat. We all sat on the queen-sized bed next to you, jockeying to inhale your last breaths. We took turns sleeping and holding your hand; together we held our breath. And to this day, I bitterly hold on to the pride of being the last to hear you speak. Four in the morning on Christmas Eve, your body gave as much strength as it could to turn towards me and whisper those haunting words. “I'm sorry you have to go through this, honey.” You spoke with a slight inflection on the “sorry,” and I was surprised to hear your voice. I was surprised that it felt so familiar when for months I had turned you into but a corpse in order to keep my composure. Your final words were sorrowful; they were certain of the end and the means. I remember it clearly, squeezing your hand and choking back my tears in order to tell you for the last time that I loved you. And our eyes locked for only a moment before you shifted your bones back into order and, I swallowed my sleep.
Hours later, the four women of your life held hands and removed the oxygen mask from your face. Your family huddled around you and waited for your breath to stop, and it did not. For hours we were fooled. That was the last one, we said to ourselves, only to be shocked by the faint rising of your chest. Your eyes were looking up, glassy and shining, still holding that glimmer of light I saw in them all of those Christmases ago. And soon, you faded away, although I would be correct to say long before your heart stopped beating. Only a moment on that winter day and you were taken with the wind. Outside it was cold, and snow was sticking to the grass. Outside it was lifeless and hollow.
We match what surrounds us.
We put your body in the frozen ground, and it felt natural to do so. We took turns throwing flowers on your grave while wondering if there was any part of ourselves left to salvage. The answer remains in the place where you rest, your body sinking deeper into the ground. Inside a wooden casket, I can no longer see your face. It has been months since we lowered you and winter is showing signs of its temporary dissipation. So am I. Although neither earth nor I have been warmed yet, we are thawing out, and I am holding on to a single memory to get me through the year.
I remember you clearly. I see you as you were, not as you would become. I hear your weight on the stairs, creaking, murmuring to me that you are close. I feel your breath on my forehead at night while I sleep.
I see you clearly. I feel my feet walking down the thirteen steps to the lower level of our house. The sun is pouring through the window, revealing dust and smoke floating in the air. You are sitting at a table. I see your thick skin, the fluid-filled sacks under your eyes, and the creases of your smile that frame your chapped lips. I see your fingers, yellowed from the cigarette held between your fingers. You smile and put it to your lips.
I walk towards you and you exhale a thick cloud of smoke. You look at me and tell me good morning.
“Good morning, my baby. You have been sleeping too long.”
I do not answer, I simply nod.
And you call me over with your loving eyes, and I give you a kiss. Some of the smoke still left on your lips catches in my throat. I am used to its sting; it soothes me now. I grab my bowl of cereal as you slather marmalade on your English muffin. But this time the memory is different. This time it goes exactly as I desire. This time my eyes stroke over the creases of your face, and I inhale your scent deeper than ever before until it becomes my own. This time, I embrace the memory, and I do not release it.
Soon winter will pass and the sun will pour through the window again, shining light where you once frequented. It will be just as beautiful as it was before, and I will not be sorrowful if you are not.
Natalie Baldino is a writer, musician, and philosophy and religious studies student at Knox College. Her writing style primarily consists of poetry along with a few selections of prose; her inspiration for writing comes from memory and the cyclical nature that can be found in all things.
by Natalie Baldino
The fringes of a single memory cannot be tied together to form a cohesive whole. Rather, each part of the memory floats around the different units of the brain, aligning itself with pre-existing categories that make up the memory's different parts. The thoughts are not exclusive and cannot be contained. They are nebulous and moving. In this way, I recall my strongest memory of him, simply a memory of a memory. Even now, in preparation of revealing my thoughts, my skin feels too tightly stretched over my white bones and the blood running through my veins feels sticky and hot like early morning sap. But if I write down the memory, that will make it constant. It will turn into a photograph that I can hold with shaking fingertips. Through this act of consecration, I will remember you the same way every time.
The fifteen previous years, the coming of the season was predicted not by the calendar but by the bones. Winter could be felt. Hearts lurched in yearning of the home-made cookies and time at home with family. Winter took on a different meaning then; snow pants and wet socks; glistening outside and inside despite the cold that we kept out with muttered curses from my father while trying to light the fireplace.
We match what surrounds us.
The house was filled with the aroma of vanilla candles and a shabby pine tree which we always would forget to water, and so we became sensual and warm. We became scents; we became the texture of worn quilts and Santa sweaters. My sisters and I would fight over the Christmas decorations and over who would get to open presents first. The only thing greater than the participation was the anticipation. The only way the climax of the season could be better is if it never came at all; to be left in the continual joy of wondering what was awaiting us.
As time progressed and our bones aged, winter grew colder. Our bones still told of its coming, but in shaking gasps and wringing hands. We settled ourselves in for the season, muscles tensed in preparation of an ever-long chill. I remember friends telling me that we had simply grown up; Christmas no longer had the spark of excitement once Santa was non-existent and we grew to hate our mothers. I looked in the mirror and could no longer find that spark of my childhood in my irises. I could not find that glimmer in anyone but you.
I remember you clearly, not as you used to be but as you were then. I was told once that you were beautiful; swollen with your joy, your eyes glistening and your baritone voice sweet with the melancholia of old age. Those memories have been replaced now, save for a few flashbacks of happiness before my lingering sorrow. As of late I remember you soggy. Withered and decaying, your cells were ripped to shreds by an intruder lurking beneath your skin. For months, you lay in that hospital bed, yet the mood was still festive. Late September you arrived, your body synchronized to the lapse of the seasons. I was not in step with nature, only with myself. But I learned to be in sync with you as I watched them pump fluids out of your hip, the perpetual drip of liquidized nutrients sustaining you for months. I lived off of coffee, letting it barely provide substance for me as I rushed daily to your bedside and spent the remaining hours staring at my ceiling. They told us pancreatic cancer. White coats walking in with clipboards and hidden faces, the doctors murmured apologies and offered consolation only to your sobbing wife. I was the silent child who refused hugs and sentiment. They feel with their arms. I feel with my marrow; I let sorrow cling to my bones until it chokes me.
For months you remained in half-life, your soul being sucked out of you slowly. October passed with you nearly comatose. Disease had infected your blood stream and I couldn't stand to say your name. November came bearing glimmers of hope, but we were tricked in more ways than one. The white of the halls, the burning of antiseptic in my nose and the brightness of the fluorescent lights convinced me that autumn and winter had passed. I could have sworn that spring had come. Instead, the leaves were in the gutter and you were once again responsive. Weak, I asked too much of you; to sing my favorite songs, to play my favorite games. As you lay in your hospital bed, your body crinkled and writhed in attempt to maintain your pride. As autumn left and winter froze our hearts, yours beat less and less. You slept frequently and I watched your lips pucker with tiny bouts of air, your ribcage ebbing and flowing.
But I remember your hope, and I remember your courage as you received notice of fewer and fewer options for survival. I saw you cry for the first time. They would not give you surgery; they would not give you chemo. Their only gift to you was sympathy and a diminished life expectancy. Defeated and resigned, you returned home to complete the cycle.
I remember the night clearly. In my head, as each hour ticked, I juxtaposed this day from the same of years passed. No hot chocolate, no Christmas decorations, no joy rising like fireplace heat. We all sat on the queen-sized bed next to you, jockeying to inhale your last breaths. We took turns sleeping and holding your hand; together we held our breath. And to this day, I bitterly hold on to the pride of being the last to hear you speak. Four in the morning on Christmas Eve, your body gave as much strength as it could to turn towards me and whisper those haunting words. “I'm sorry you have to go through this, honey.” You spoke with a slight inflection on the “sorry,” and I was surprised to hear your voice. I was surprised that it felt so familiar when for months I had turned you into but a corpse in order to keep my composure. Your final words were sorrowful; they were certain of the end and the means. I remember it clearly, squeezing your hand and choking back my tears in order to tell you for the last time that I loved you. And our eyes locked for only a moment before you shifted your bones back into order and, I swallowed my sleep.
Hours later, the four women of your life held hands and removed the oxygen mask from your face. Your family huddled around you and waited for your breath to stop, and it did not. For hours we were fooled. That was the last one, we said to ourselves, only to be shocked by the faint rising of your chest. Your eyes were looking up, glassy and shining, still holding that glimmer of light I saw in them all of those Christmases ago. And soon, you faded away, although I would be correct to say long before your heart stopped beating. Only a moment on that winter day and you were taken with the wind. Outside it was cold, and snow was sticking to the grass. Outside it was lifeless and hollow.
We match what surrounds us.
We put your body in the frozen ground, and it felt natural to do so. We took turns throwing flowers on your grave while wondering if there was any part of ourselves left to salvage. The answer remains in the place where you rest, your body sinking deeper into the ground. Inside a wooden casket, I can no longer see your face. It has been months since we lowered you and winter is showing signs of its temporary dissipation. So am I. Although neither earth nor I have been warmed yet, we are thawing out, and I am holding on to a single memory to get me through the year.
I remember you clearly. I see you as you were, not as you would become. I hear your weight on the stairs, creaking, murmuring to me that you are close. I feel your breath on my forehead at night while I sleep.
I see you clearly. I feel my feet walking down the thirteen steps to the lower level of our house. The sun is pouring through the window, revealing dust and smoke floating in the air. You are sitting at a table. I see your thick skin, the fluid-filled sacks under your eyes, and the creases of your smile that frame your chapped lips. I see your fingers, yellowed from the cigarette held between your fingers. You smile and put it to your lips.
I walk towards you and you exhale a thick cloud of smoke. You look at me and tell me good morning.
“Good morning, my baby. You have been sleeping too long.”
I do not answer, I simply nod.
And you call me over with your loving eyes, and I give you a kiss. Some of the smoke still left on your lips catches in my throat. I am used to its sting; it soothes me now. I grab my bowl of cereal as you slather marmalade on your English muffin. But this time the memory is different. This time it goes exactly as I desire. This time my eyes stroke over the creases of your face, and I inhale your scent deeper than ever before until it becomes my own. This time, I embrace the memory, and I do not release it.
Soon winter will pass and the sun will pour through the window again, shining light where you once frequented. It will be just as beautiful as it was before, and I will not be sorrowful if you are not.
Natalie Baldino is a writer, musician, and philosophy and religious studies student at Knox College. Her writing style primarily consists of poetry along with a few selections of prose; her inspiration for writing comes from memory and the cyclical nature that can be found in all things.
