Different perspective -Notes to My Biographer

               

            The week has grown impossible; the stocks have taken a hit and Eric has only been a burden on the load of work I've been forced to do. As I stand up from my bed, I look at my aging body. Analyzing the figure in the mirror, I notice the skin from the corner of my eye folding over. Scratching my back, I rustle my way to the bathroom and unconsciously start recalling the worries that seemed to have woken me from my sleep. I stare at myself again in the mirror and look at the bottles of pills stacked on the counter. I grab one bottle, take two pills. I grab the other, take one pill. I grab the third, take four pills. The cycle that I take every single morning repeats, and my day starts again.

I kiss Eric good-bye and drive to the firm. I sit down. Drink my coffee. Talk to Ed. Say hi to Mary. Do some work. Eat lunch. Try to not fall asleep. Work a little bit more. Say goodbye to Ed. Say goodbye to Mary. Get in my car. 

As the constant purr of the motor drowns the constant worry circulating in my mind, I finally think on what I would do when I would get home. Eric would probably be watching TV by now and the dinner would not be ready; the laundry would probably have to be done. The door to the house swings smoothly open as I place my black dress shoe in the cleared entryway and with the silent slam, I hear the roar of the creaky garage door close its gape. I look at my watch, 5 30. So much was still left to do. As I scanned the spacey kitchen and the modern living room my eyes passes that of my loving partner Eric and yet another figure too familiar to my eyes. His hunched yet broad back still held the strength that characterized his being.

 My heart skipped a beat as I looked into my father’s eyes; they were glazed and his open arms only spoke of putting more weight on my shoulders. I had so much left to do.

                “What’s the matter?”(7) he asked. I stepped back and looked into his face; they wandered away from my eyes and stared to the floor, in thought.

                “You actually came,”(7) I said, shocked.  His face looked at me in recognition, but automatically his face stiffened. He said, “ I've invented a new bicycle.”(7) My father, the man I had presumed dead, sees me for the first time in four years and all he can do is act the same way, be the same crazy man, be the same empty careless being I had to call a father. All I can do is rest my head on my husband’s shoulder and breath in his familiar sent.

                ”It’s going to have a self-charging battery,”(7) dad states.

…

                I take a fresh step out of the shower and breath in the moist air of my cleansed essence. The stiff air clears and my brain defogs with the mirrors; my dad is in my house and his condition has only worsened. I look back at the jar of pills on the bathroom counter and sigh.  My heart races as I recall the events of my childhood and my shirt slowly slides over my torso covering the internal pains that persists in my chest. I walk out of the bathroom as the steam seeps into the atmosphere. The door rings. I walk to the door as my dad shouts, “That’ll be for me!”(8).

                “What’s this?”(8) I inquire irritated.

                “We’re celebrating! There’s a new project in the pipeline,”(8) he says with misty eyes handing me the bill in unity. I glare at the four number integer and recall my mother and my childhood.

                “This is twelve hundred dollars. We’re not buying it.”(8) A burden. Memories, past pains, present pains, future pains all seemed to participate in my life then. My chest inflated as I watched my father walk out the front door. I turn around to Eric and whisper, “What am I going to do?”(8)

                He walks back into the room with a bottle of champagne and grin on his face that persisted as he analyzing my stance ignoring the awkward situation.

                “Why don’t we have some champagne?” Eric interjected. “You two can talk this over at dinner.”(9)