“You have to understand, the way I am, is the way I was raised. My parents were both very strict. They took care of me, and I know they loved me in their own way, but they weren’t big on emotion or affection.
“My father was a gruff Scotsman, who believed the opposite of everything your dad taught you. He thought me that vulnerability was very much a sign of weakness, not as you rightly said, a show of strength.
“I wasn’t allowed to cry in front of him, and I wasn’t allowed to be anything less than perfect in everything from my grades, to my behavior, and the way I dressed. Our home was neither happy nor abusive. All emotion was banned from our house, including happiness.
“And when I met your father,” she says on a smile, squeezing my hand, “he was a breath of fresh air. He spent a lifetime teaching me how to feel and how to express those emotions. Now he’s gone, I guess I’ve found myself slipping into old habits.”
“How do you mean?”
“My comfort zone is control, and even though I knew it was coming, losing him has made everything appear so entirely out of my control that I’ve been clinging to the only shreds I can grasp. I didn’t think about the effect it was having on you and Oscar.
“I didn’t realize I was teaching you what my parents taught me. For once, I’m glad you didn’t listen to me.” She nudges my shoulders.
“I never thought I’d hear you say that.” I laugh and she joins me before her expression becomes soft and serious.
“I know I don’t say it enough, I’m not sure if I’ve ever said it, but I’m proud of you, Matilda. Not only are you so much like your father, but you’re everything I always wished I could be. You’re the best parts of both of us, and yet completely yourself. I’m sorry if I ever made you believe you’re not good enough, you’re perfect as you are. You always have been to me.”
Sometimes, you don’t realize how much you needed to hear something until it’s been said. I never knew just how much I needed my mom to be proud of me, just how much I was craving her support, pride, and acceptance.
I’d trained myself to believe I didn’t care; that all I needed was my dad’s love and understanding, but I realize now that it wasn’t true. With her words, something clicks into place in my soul and I’m free. With the final release of latent tension comes the release of tears, and it’s my turn to lean on my mom for comfort and her turn to offer it willingly.
“I was scared to go to sleep tonight,” she announces into the stillness. I freeze in my position on her now damp chest, not wanting to disturb this new version of my mother, who openly shares her thoughts and feelings and allows herself to be vulnerable. It’s going to take some time to adjust to her.
“Why?” I ask when it’s clear she’s waiting for a response to her random confession, and perhaps some encouragement that it’s okay to step outside her comfort zone into the vulnerable unknown.
“Because I didn’t want to wake up in a world without him. I know I’ve been doing that for the past week or so, but something seemed…different about today. This was the final goodbye. He isn’t coming back; and when I wake up tomorrow, it will be the true beginning of my life without him. And I’m not ready. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to wake up to a world that doesn’t have him in it.” Her tearful confession causes fresh tears to spring to my eyes and fall once again.
“Me either. I’ll stay up with you,” I offer. “If you want, we can spend the time talking about Daddy and our favorite memories of him. I’d love to hear more about how you met.” I relish this newfound connection and comfort level between us.
“Are you sure?” Her tone is hesitant, mixed with hope and uncertainty. “I don’t want to keep you up if you’re tired.”
“I’m sure. I want this. And besides, not only am I not tired, but no way will I sleep tonight.”
“Okay then.”
“Yeah?” I look up at her with hope and am struck still by the look of adoration being reflected back at me.
“Yeah,” she says, kissing my forehead and tucking me back under her chin.
So that’s what we do.
We talk. We laugh. We cry. We share. We reminisce. We confess. We cuddle. We connect. Then we cry some more.
Acquaintances become allies. Family become friends.
And as our sobs quiet, and our tears start to dry, the sun begins to rise on the first day of the next chapter of our lives.
IT’S BEEN TWO years, almost to the day, that my father died and my world was forever changed. Nothing is the same, least of all me. I have grown and evolved into many Matildas over my twenty-one years, but becoming ‘Matilda without her dad’ has been the toughest reincarnation yet.
But I’m still breathing. If nothing else, the fact I’m still breathing, is a triumph.
For a while, it was all I was sure of. For a while, it was all anyone could ask of me.
But with painstaking slowness, they were able to ask more of me, and I was able to ask more of myself than just getting out of bed to face a world without my father in it.
As night became day, spring became summer, and nineteen became twenty, I began to smile, to laugh, to dream, to dance, to strive, to live.
Truly. Deeply. Freely.
And not just because I thought I should, but because I wanted to. For me.
Freedom came in realizing that I will never ‘move on’ from my father because I take him with me wherever I go. I was only able to move forward once I let go of my fear of leaving him behind.
So that’s what I’m doing as I walk barefoot along our favorite beach toward his bench, watching as the crimson sun melts into the sea. I stand and look on in awe at the surreal splendor of this world of ours.
The sight before me is an artist’s dream. I raise my vintage Olympus OM 10 camera from around my neck and do my best to capture the vivid sunset, aware that it’s a pointless pursuit.
The best sights in life are hard to capture—with a pen, a camera, or a mind. They are otherworldly gifts, too beautiful to belong to us for more than a brief glance, too fragile to be contained and kept safe for rainy days. If only we could bottle the magic of soulful sunsets, or grasp the infinite expanse of panoramic views in our hands. Instead, they slip through our senses and memories like sand and sea through fingers.
Yet still we try like children chasing butterflies to hold the intangible beauty in our hands, to keep it captive and treasured in our possession forever. A memory is never as good as a moment. Any photograph I take of this sunset, like my memory of it, will one day deteriorate, having never been as good as the real thing in the first place. The vibrant, effervescent, colors will fade to pastels and white, the crisp edges curled at the corners of my mind.
Still I try. A photograph of this sunset would still make an amazing second-hand memory. For the past year, I’ve been attending California’s prestigious Bilde Art School to help make my dreams of becoming a well-respected photographer a reality. It’s a three-year course and I’m loving it so far.
I’ve learned a lot, the most important of which is that sometimes you need to put down the camera long enough to experience an image with senses other than sight. It sounds a bit ridiculous, as you need your eyes to see an image, but that’s the whole point. Sometimes you need to feel instead of see.
My professor, Frieda, came up with a saying that adequate photographers use their sight, good photographers use their senses, and great photographers use their souls. She’s trying to take me from a good photographer to a great one. It’s still a work in progress.
But I think that no matter how good I become, or how much success I have, I’ll still always be a work in progress. I hope so. Who wants to reach the stage where you believe you’re done? I can’t imagine thinking I know everything there ever is to know about anything.
Learning takes a lifetime and even the geniuses among us die ignorant. You should always want to learn, to grow, to improve. Otherwise, what’s the point? You may as well just give up and die. Life is both a classroom
and a teacher. Always new things to see, people to meet, lessons to learn. We’ll always be the students, never the professors.
Despite the stunning sight, the beach is mainly empty. The sunbathers and surfers have long since scattered with the ever-cooling air like students fleeing the classroom at the ringing of the bell, while I stay behind like a teacher’s pet asking for more homework. Their loss is my gain.
While I love Ocean Beach at every time of the day, this is my favorite hour. When the sun is setting, the sand is still, and the only sounds come from the surf. I’m at peace here, something within me settles.
It’s mid-May so the air is warm, but the delicate sea breeze caresses my skin, causing me to tighten my light-wash denim jacket around me, and the stray strands of my hair to waltz in the wind. I’d prefer to be in jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt instead of my white shorts and billowing floral blouse, but it’s not too cold at the moment.
As I see my father’s bench on the horizon, cast in the warm amber glow of the sky, I spot a lone silhouette sitting on it and my heart sinks. Of course, anyone can sit on the bench, but I had hoped to be alone with my dad and my thoughts. It’s the perfect bench in the perfect spot for thinkers and dreamers.
Today I fall into the first category, though I’m also a member of the latter. I hesitate, unsure of whether I should proceed or turn around and walk back to my car to drive home. Maybe this mysterious figure also wants to be alone with their thoughts and would resent the interruption my presence would bring.
Perhaps I’ll just walk up to it. It’s possible that they’ll leave in the time it takes me to reach it and if not, I can keep walking past and make it seem like that was always my intention. Nothing is worse than an interloper in your solitude. As someone who hates her quiet time interrupted, I’d never do it to someone else.
Decision made, I carry on walking along the stretch of sand, enjoying its coarse grains beneath my feet. My mom always says that walks along the beach are nature’s pedicure, which makes me laugh, but there’s truth in it.
A fond smile graces my face at the thought of my mom. Ever since that night on the deck two years ago when our emotional walls crumbled, we’ve become close among the wreckage. Two broken people doing the best they can to put each other back together.
We’re still made up of mismatched and cracked pieces, but a much better understanding exists between us. She allows me to see her imperfect and I allow her to see me afraid.
We now have a bond that doesn’t need my dad for reinforcement. It can survive on its own. It’s another work in progress, but it’s ours, and that’s all that matters.
As I near the solitary stranger, I can tell it’s a man from his build. I can’t make out any features due to the position of the light, plus his head is bent, as if looking down at something. I’m a few steps away when his head jerks up, somehow attuned to my presence even though my footsteps are silent in the sand.
He looks straight at me. And I stand still. For a brief moment, I stop breathing.
And then my lungs once again take in salty air as my eyes once again take in the sight of the blond-haired, blue-eyed man, who is currently staring back at me with an expression I’m sure mirrors my own.
I stand and he sits, both of us frozen; strangers reunited under the splendidly setting sun.
“HI.”
“Hey.”
I’m struck by the warm sense of familiarity and recognition I experience upon hearing two of the most common and basic words in the English language. Everything has changed since that day, and yet in this moment, things feel just as they did two years ago. We’re once again just a boy and a girl searching and failing for words and moments that transcend the mundane.
“Long time no see, Goldilocks.”
His shocked face spreads into a glorious, dimpled smile at my nickname from that day gone by. He looks the same but different. A light dusting of blond stubble on his jaw that wasn’t there before, a confidence and presence in his posture which hadn’t existed, muscles defined where once they were only toned, and a subtle sadness behind his vivid blue eyes I don’t remember seeing two years ago. His ear-length blond waves are buried underneath a brown beanie hat, and he’s more appropriately dressed than me in a mossy green cable knit sweater and light blue jeans.
“A long time indeed. Although if I remember it right, we agreed it always comes back to time, didn’t we, Baby Bear?” he asks in reference to the phrase he’d written so long ago on the back of the treasure of a lifetime, which now has pride of place in a frame above the desk in my room. “Maybe now is our time.”
I understand what he means and yet I don’t. Like my soul understands something my brain doesn’t, my brow valleys even as I find myself replying, “Maybe it is.”
He smiles at this, as if knowing a secret I’m not yet privy to.
“I hope so. You going to take a seat? As glad as I am for this coincidence, I’m sure the one in a billion chance of running into me isn’t why you’re here?” he asks with a self-deprecating smile. He picks up whatever is on the bench next to him and shifts left so both of us can sit down and stare out at the sea.
I only hesitate for a second before walking the remaining few steps and joining him on my father’s bench. I’m not sure why I pause. It’s as if I know that if I go toward him, I’ll be walking forward in more ways than one. Even though I’m not quite sure what all of those ways are.
As I sit, I realize the items next to him were his sketchpad and a small palette of watercolors, which are now resting on his lap and to the left of him. He’s painted an incredible version of the sunset. I guess we both had the same idea to capture the infinitely intangible.
“That’s amazing.” I nod my head toward the painting.
“Thanks.”
“I had the same idea, though mine takes less skill,” I say, holding up the camera around my neck.
“Not necessarily. Something tells me you’re an incredible photographer.” I blush behind my natural tan.
“Thanks. I’m a work in progress. My dream is to become a professional photographer. I’m currently going to school for it.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Um, Bilde,” I tell him. My tone is almost embarrassed even though it’s something I should be proud of, something I am proud of.
Before he can stop them, his eyebrows raise in surprise at the mention of the world-renowned art college. “Well then, I’m certain you’re an incredible photographer.”
I don’t know how to respond, so I just smile and soak in the sunset.
“I can leave if you want to be alone with your dad?”
I’m touched at his thoughtfulness and understanding. But even though I had come here with the intention of being alone, I’m happy to remain in his presence and don’t mind his intrusion.
“No, that’s fine. Thanks for the offer though.”
“You’re sure?”
I nod in confirmation. “I’m sure.”
“Okay.”
We’re both quiet for a moment, but it’s not awkward or strained. It just is. That’s the best kind of silence, when it’s not anything but itself.
“Do you come here often?” I ask him, breaching the quiet. I wonder if this is his first time here or if he’s been coming over the years like I have, crossing my path but never on it.
He goes to answer and then pauses as if he’s just heard what I’ve asked him. His face fills with amusement and he raises a questioning eyebrow at me, causing momentary confusion. Unsure of myself, I repeat my words in my head, trying to work out what was so funny about what I said that prevents him from giving me a straight answer.
Then I get the joke.
And even though it’s not that funny, suddenly we’re both laughing with the good kind of tears in our eyes just like that day almost on this very spot two years ago.
“That wasn’t a come on, I promise,” I tell him, through residual laughter
once we’ve both calmed down.
“You’re sure about that?”
“Positive.”
“That’s a shame.”
For a moment, I’m thrown off by his serious expression, but then he smiles, breaking the tension and I smile too, once again nothing but a mirror to his emotions.
“Trust me, you’d know if it was.” I give him an impish nudge. “Plus, I’d like to think I could do better than lazy lines and exhausted clichés.”
“I’m sure you could.”
“So have you been to this bench before?” I rephrase with care, causing him to see through my attempt with a smirk.
I’m thankful that he plays along this time. “Yes, I come here all the time. It’s a great spot for working through thoughts and issues, or just being, you know?”
“I do know,” I tell him, and I do. I’m sure it has more to do with the location of the bench rather than any lingering traces of my father’s spirit, but it’s fitting that the best person I knew to go to for advice would have a spot in his honor that helps those seeking guidance.
“I guess it goes without saying that you come here a lot?”
“Yes, all the time. As you said, it’s a great spot for just being. Plus it has the added element for me of feeling close to my dad.” He didn’t ask, and I’m not sure why I feel compelled to tell, but I find myself confessing to him.
“I come here whenever I need one of his hugs or pieces of wisdom,” I tell him. “Or when I feel myself forgetting him,” I whisper the last line, revealing my most shameful secret to this relative stranger.
His knowing nod is without judgment or comment and somehow I’m safe in his silent support. With both of his parents dead, I’m sure he understands what I mean better than most.
“It’s tough when you stop being able to picture their faces with clarity isn’t it? Or when you find yourself thinking about them every other day or every few days, instead of every day like you used to.
“And then you’ll be doing something simple like getting dressed or taking out the trash, and you’ll remember. You feel like you’re betraying them by being too happy to remember to be sad, too preoccupied living to remember that they’re dead. Then you‘re suffocated by shame and self-loathing for letting them slip from your mind for even a single second.”
The Counting-Downers Page 8