I don’t remember getting dressed.
I don’t remember leaving the yacht.
I don’t remember the swaying stopping.
As I sit up, I realize the swaying truly hasn’t stopped. Maybe I’m still on a boat after all? This is all some dream. I used to dream about Miami a lot that first year. I tried to remember what the sun felt like even when I was cursing it for causing me to sweat so much. This is a dream.
I stand up, and the ground shakes.
Shit.
I grab the back of the bench to steady myself.
The ground seems real enough. Grass tickles the bottoms of my feet.
I stare down at my bare toes. I may have gotten dressed, but I’m not wearing any shoes—not that I want shoes. I can’t remember why people would ever want to wear such things.
I take a step, and the texture of the grass is intense. It tickles and itches the bottom of my foot.
So their feet don’t have to feel this, that’s why people wear shoes.
One more step, and I let go of the park bench. The ground still shifts back and forth, and I’m sure I look drunk as I walk, but I don’t care.
It’s early in the morning, and other than a few early morning joggers and homeless people, there isn’t anyone around to judge me.
I keep walking, slowly at first, and then my steps become more regular as I get used to the wobbling. I know the way without thinking. My past has been buried for years, but now it blasts back into my consciousness as if I was here yesterday.
I don’t take in my surroundings as I walk; the sounds and noises would overwhelm me if I did. Instead, I let the sounds of the cars honking and whizzing by drift into the background. I don’t focus on the grass, or sand, or sidewalk changing under my feet, making it more difficult to walk with each change in the terrain. I keep my eyes down, so I don’t have to register the bright sun or the vibrant colors all around.
All I want to do is make it to the trailer and lock myself up in my room for days.
Finally, the trailer appears in front of me in the same place it’s been parked for almost twenty years. It never occurred to me, as I walked over here, that father could have moved or sold it.
The ratchety old door creaks open, and I realize the door still doesn’t latch properly. My father never fixed it.
And then, as if my thought of him called him to existence, my dad stands at the top of the three steps that lead up to the door. Enzo kept one of his promises to ensure my father stayed alive.
We both eye each other, standing tall and stiff. Neither of us breathes. We just look. I don’t have to speak to tell him what I’ve been through the last three plus years. He can see every mark and hand that was ever laid on me. If he thought I ran away from home, that doubt has now been pushed away.
I’ve changed completely; he looks the same.
If there were ever a time where we would react differently than our usual, unaffectionate selves, now would be that time. But that isn’t who we are. We don’t do hugs. We don’t do warmth. We may love each other, but we don’t stoop to such weakness. It’s not who we
are. I doubt my father even hugged me when my mother died.
I can’t remember ever hugging this man.
I don’t know how long we stand just looking at each other. It could be seconds or hours. My ability to comprehend time was taken from me, along with my body and sense of worth.
Finally, my father moves. He takes the three steps down the stairs and stops in front of me.
“You shouldn’t have come back,” his voice cracks.
I agree, I shouldn’t have.
I don’t speak though. I don’t nod. I just let his words fill me.
Is there a tear in the corner of his eye?