T(r)oy's Marbles

Together, we tackled the world. I fed you and clothed you and bathed you and sang love songs over your head. I put my finger in your hand, but that was never enough for you. Instead, you preferred to rest your head under my chin, with your arms bundled neatly between your body and mine. When you got bigger, your right arm slung itself up on my shoulder, grazing my neck, as if you were trying to put your arm around me.

Just as you were learning to hug me, I had to let you go. Daddy returned to work and baby went into daycare. Thus began your attachment with women you would know and not know. Gradually, you learned that women come and women go. Last year’s model would be replaced by this year’s model. And next year’s model would replace her, your early childhood dotted with attachments that dissipated in due course.

You passed from arm to arm: skinny to muscular, pale to tan, black to white, long to short. You quickly grew accustomed to the unique scents, colors and textures. The only consistency lay in each one’s temporality.

Still, at 5.30 each day, there would always be Daddy’s arms, outstretched. Instinctively, you reached for me. Eventually, when you learned to walk, you stumbled toward me with your arms out front for balance. Then, you learned to run, climb onto my back and grab hold of my neck tightly. At last you could form a complete circle with your arms.

Thus began the playful years. We crawled on all fours, barking, mooing and roaring. I swung you wildly, round and round, holding your hands, your legs suspended behind you as you giggled. Those were the days of piggy-back rides and wrestling matches, the days of hide-and-seek and treasure hunts, the days of great big bear hugs.

In your early school years, you learned quickly. You learned that 1 plus 1 equals two, but you would have rather worked the equation 1 plus 2. See, this is when you became aware that you were different, that you didn’t have a mommy, that your life was the world’s simplest calculation: 1 plus 1--you and me. This is when you learned that your friends had a daddy and a mommy. And baby makes three. Over the years, you would come to understand this not as addition, but rather, as subtraction.

“Why don’t I have a mommy?”

“She died.”

“Oh. Is she ever coming back?”

“No, honey. When someone dies, they’re gone forever.”

“So, I’ll never have a mommy?”

“No, honey. I’m sorry. But remember: Daddy loves you. And Daddy is not going anywhere.”

The rest of your life consisted of putting that promise to the test. In your early childhood, this took on the form of minor rebellions, sporadic tantrums and labored tears. In your teens, the rebellions became major and the tears came easier.

You started skipping class to take drugs and sleep with boys. On the one hand, you wanted to be like everybody else, but on the other, you wanted to be like nobody else. You figured: if your life was going to be different, you might as well make it really different.

And that’s exactly what happened. Yours was a life without a mother but with a father, while your friends were dealt the opposite hand in life. Practically half a generation had grown up fatherless. One by one, your girlfriends related stories of infidelity and restlessness at home.

“My mom and dad are breaking up.”

“Dad cheated on mom.”

“My father says he doesn’t love my mom anymore.”

“The divorce went as well as could be expected, I suppose. They’re still friends, at least.”

“Oh well. What are you gonna do, huh? Just deal with it, I guess.”

While all this was going on, your boyfriends started cursing you. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, their words turned into slaps. The slaps turned into fists, and the fists gave way to kicks.

You came home one night, bruised, battered, beaten and bloody. But you weren’t crying. I was, however. I gathered you in my arms, do you remember? I gathered you in my arms and held you. I guided you over to the nearest chair and cried over you and held you. But you just sat there: numb, pale, empty, dead. Your arms hung limply at your sides.

That’s when I remembered: you could be held but not controlled.

So, what was a father to do, then? There was nothing else I could do but just keep on loving you while hoping, praying, for the day when I would place my arms around you and you would place yours around me, a sign that the love I freely offered had been truly received.

I knew that night that I would wake up the next morning and you would be gone. I was tempted to lock the doors, sit by your bedside and watch your every move, tempted to stop you, to make sure you would not leave my sight from then on. But I realized I had to let you go, could not control you, had to entrust you into a pair of arms that were bigger than mine.

Four years later, you returned. I remember our conversation.

“Where did you go?”

“Oh, no place special, really.”

“With your boyfriend?”

“No. That creep.”

“With who then?”

“With Sally.”

“Sally? Who’s that?”

“My partner.”

“Your what?”

“My partner. I, uh, I love her.”

There was an awkward pause. You broke the silence with: “So, aren’t you happy for me?”

I just said, “Oh, honey.” And gathered you in my arms.

You stood there, again with your hands at your sides, and said, “I’m so happy now. Really. I feel like I’ve finally found who I am. Like I’m free now to be me.”

I kept holding you. Until at last you broke my arms and said, “Well, I’m gonna go now. I, uh, I just wanted to see you and let you know I’m fine. I, uh, I gotta go now. Sally’s waiting for me at the corner. So, see ya.”

I followed you to the door and watched you walk down the street. I saw Sally, waiting there for you. As you approached, she held out her arms and gave you a hug. You kissed her in return. Then, you turned and looked my way. I lifted my arm and waved, a sign that, when you’d finally stop running, I’d be right here awaiting your return, arms up and ready to receive you.

8 years passed and you showed up again. You were pale and gaunt, dirty and hungry. And, you were dying.

You had spent most of that time with Sally, happy that you’d found a woman who stuck around for once in your life. But then you became ill and Sally disappeared. She was unable to cope, knowing you were HIV positive and could contract AIDS at any time.

You were too ashamed, however, to return to your father’s arms. Too ashamed, knowing that he loved you no matter what--and here you had squandered that love. How foolish you felt! Shame gripped you, dragging you to fear: fear of what would happen should you show your face around perfect love again. Sure, you knew that what your father offered you was simply love, and that was comforting. It was just the “perfection” part you couldn’t stand.

So you opted for imperfect love instead, which, as you discovered, wasn’t really love at all. You looked to anyone who would take you in and anything that would put you up for a season. You withered, moving from woman to woman and drug to drug. Until finally you didn’t have any other place to turn but home, to your father’s arms.

I’ll never forget that day, the day of your return. I came home to find you spent on the couch. You had remembered that there was a key under the mat by the back door and you had let yourself in.

I saw you laying there, eyes gray, a shell of a human. I stroked your hair. You awoke and turned over. I held you on my lap, like a baby, like you were four months old again. I sang over your head, “Jesus loves the little children.” Then, with a weak tear limping down your face, you opened up your arms. I leaned over and hugged you and, for the first time since you were a child, you hugged me back and said, “I’m home, Daddy. I’m home.”

You couldn’t find words to express what you wanted to say next, though God knows you tried.

I saved you the trouble and said, “Shhh…baby. It’s okay. Daddy’s right here. Daddy’s not going anywhere.”

Thus began the hardest but best year of my life. See, this was the year I clothed you and fed you and took care of you in your sickness. This was the year I embraced you almost every hour of every day, and you clung to me willingly in return. Those were the moments I had been waiting for my whole life.

But, all good things must come to an end, to make way for greater things. You died with arms wide open, as if you were readying yourself to run towards your heavenly Father, ready to embrace eternity. Ready to hear Jesus’ strong voice say, “It’s okay. Your father’s right here. Daddy’s not going anywhere.” At last, at long last, you were born again, a miracle child, at peace, at rest, in your Father’s arms.