Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

“Are you sure you’ll manage?” she asks. I’m not exactly helpless. “I think I’ll cope.” She heads out the door. By the time she’s home I’ve shut the kids in their rooms, thrown toys across the floor, and broken the phone. She didn’t answer! “Couldn’t hear you in the store.”

D’you remember going on roller-coasters with me? ‘Member holding my hand? ‘Member holding me tight? D’you remember pretending your shirt wasn’t damp with my tears? D’you remember it Dad? D’you remember it right, ‘Cause you made me believe I was brave all those long years ago? I’m grateful, dear Dad.

Last time they played, Dave threw his cards across the room and walked out. Jess cried. The time before, Alex complained Dad only cared about winning. “Well, it’s a game; you’re meant to want to win.” But this time… “Hey guys; why you ganging up on me?” “It’s teamwork, Dad.”

He comes home from work, so tired, can’t play. He’s fixing the yard, still can’t play. He’s counting finances, so tired, can’t play. He’s busy. There’s no time today. He comes home from school, so tired, can’t talk, From work, from his kids, from a walk; No time Dad today.

“Fathers’ Day,” said one. “Yup,” said the other. “You got kids?” “Two.” “See them?” “Nope.” “Want to see them?” “Wouldn’t want them to see me like this.” “Fathers’ Day,” said the assistant. “Happy Fathers’ Day to any dads out there.” They took their soup and rolls, saying, “Thank you, Son.”

When it was mothers’ day Dad sent him out to pick flowers. He brought her a bunch of dandelions, some bright like suns, some fluffy with white bobble-hats. When it was fathers’ day Mom send him out to pick flowers. But he brought back beetles, spiders, snails and a worm.

There’s a store in town prides itself on healthy, local, natural, what you really want to eat. They wanted gluten-free, lactose-free, vegetarian and not too spicy for Fathers’ Day. Amazingly enough they had plenty to choose from; mother and son now value this store as helpful, imaginative, interesting and delicious.

Beer, check; fresh-baked bread, check; French cheese, check; Danish pastries, check; Black Forest ham,; hummus, tapenade, green salad with strawberries; fresh-squeezed orange; fresh-whipped cream; fresh and delicious, she checks the items one by one from her list. Paper and pens and bright colored ink; “Let’s make a Fathers’ Day card.”

The old man lay in bed, young man by his side. “What you done with my wife?” “Nothing Grandpa. I came to see you for Father’s Day.” “Whose father? What you done with my son?” “Nothing Grandpa. I came to say hi.” “How high?” “High as heaven and loving you.”

The old man sat by the phone, tea-cup in saucer, dregs in cup, crumbs neatly gathered next to a drip on the plate. He sat with his eyes turned far away and listened to the sound of surf, of sand, of moving tanks, of war. Son doesn’t phone him anymore.

He phoned his wife from the airport. “I’m on my way home.” “See you tomorrow,” she said. His day was her night, his flight a whole life; then his phone beeped the magical words—Baby’s arrived! He phoned his wife when he landed, then rushed to see mother and child.

Mothers get breakfast in bed. Fathers get socks. Mothers get bunches of flowers. Fathers get ties. Mothers get boxes of chocolates. Fathers get socks. Mothers get beautiful scarves. Fathers get ties. Mothers get washing and cleaning. Fathers get socks. Mothers get cooking the dinner. Fathers get ties. Parents get love.

Stand still. He’s like a doll with painted smile and hair just so. Stand still. Ready for school, socks sliding down, aching to grow. Stand still. He spreads his wings and flies. Stand still. He graduates and smiles. Stand still. Son grown to father tells his own child wait awhile.

“Daddy, I’m bored,” said the boy on the train. His father told him “Be quiet.” “Daddy, I’m bored,” said another boy. His father said “Read a book.” “Daddy, I’m bored,” said a third boy on the train. Putting his smart phone back in its case, this father said, “Let’s play.”

He’s typing words on a page, and letters fly with glorious rage, keyboard to screen--his muse surely hitting the high notes, as fingers perform a percussion of clattering dreams. And coffee’s bitter brew steeps sensuously, its scented veil trailing across his eyes. When he looks at the screen the notes of the muse fall flat. Did he mean to write that? Family life intervenes on his story’s stage, with kids demanding, “Daddy, play with me.” The page is gray, the keyboard stone, and finger-ends are wearied skin and bone. Save chapter; start another? No. Author and muse together groan.

Okay, I know the World Cup's not even nearly finished, but this is what came to mind. The pitch is empty, football done, the cup awarded to the team that won, and now one lonely boy stands guard, watching the setting sun. He reaches for the orb as if a ball, throws it and runs. Sure-footed, dribbles down the pitch, eyes floodlit with his fun. But, fouled in the box, he falls like a pretzel to the ground. No sound, but empty air draws breath. Child looks for the ref then smiles, finds the spot, takes the shot. The pitch is empty, sun gone down. A father’s son bows low to the cheering crowd before going home.

Sleep is his Achilles’ Heel. Catch him when he’s tired enough and promises break. Keep an eye on the child. Play after work and smile. Keep every promise and never let anyone down. Super-Dad, except when Achilles starts snoring again. Incy Wincy’s climbing the water-spout. Dad runs his eight-legged spider hands with fingers that tickle his son. Crossed thumbs are eyes. Cross-eyed spider in the bath-tub. Spider on the wall. “Read,” says the child so he picks up a book, turns a page and tries to speak. “Incy wincy retreated and bumped his head.” “Dad! That’s not what it said.”

Dear Dad. Pretty bowl. And the fish was delicious. Dear Mimi. That wasn’t for eating. Dear Dad. Beg pardon. Dear Mimi. Pardon granted. Don’t do it again. Dear Dad. The fish in the fridge was truly delicious. Dear Mimi. That was our dinner. Dear Dad. Yes. I ate it. Dear Mimi. Ours. Not yours. Dear Dad. The fish on the barbecue is smelling really great. Dear Mimi. Not for you. Plastic fish, catnip-flavored, by your food. Dear Dad. Just you wait. Dear Mimi. Hmm. Dear Dad. That fish on the barbeque was delicious. Dear Mimi. Bad cat. Dear Dad. Miaow!

It was after he lost his job that his closed his eyes. Why look at a sky that’s too far away to reach? Why look at trees that won’t offer shade, or flowers that refuse to bloom? Why look at grass that only grows ever fatter on your lost labors? Or at streams that flow to unavailable dreams? Why look at friends and family who mourn your guilt and sigh in sad despair at your failing skill? But the raincloud caught him unawares. The sun peeked round its corner to warm his smile. Then he found himself tripping over miracles.

We gather round the dining table; Mum with her tight dark curls at one end, then me and my brothers, then Dad. I’m hoping my older brother won’t start a row. He and Dad always argue politics over fish’n chips on Saturdays, but this is Sunday and we’ve been to church. Coffee’s hot in the tall green pot, elegant, smooth-lined, smooth-scented with the warmth of hot milk. Dad pours into tiny cups. He mixed instant with the real stuff once when we ran short; a heresy worse than religion or politics. The sun shines, shading my memories coffee-brown and sweet.