The Song That Never Ends

I remember the day you came home. The day you came back to me, when you were 21. I was in the bedroom folding clothes while repeating to myself over and over, “doblar la ropa, doblar la ropa, estoy doblando la ropa, estoy doblando la ropa.” It’s one of the tricks I’d learned to make a new language stick to an old brain. Repetition. It’s magical if you have the patience.

The doorbell rang interrupting my mantra. I reached for the remote and muted Oprah. As I headed for the stairs, I was thinking how powerful a piece of molded plastic and four double A batteries had made me. In an instant, with the push of a button, I was able to mute the Queen of all media. The thought tickled me as I climbed the stairs wondering who was at the door. I was not expecting anyone. Could have been UPS with another package. “Por el amor de Dios,” what book that I’m never going to read have I ordered now?

I opened the door and couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you see me see you. Your lips curled and parted revealing those Chicklets I fought so hard to make you brush dilligently. You waved. I swooned, and raced to unlock the gate.

You came crashing into me, your arms finding their place around my neck. You are the reason God gave me shoulders. You’ve owned this space since you were a tiny little thing, with huge translucent eyes, roasted almond skin, and sausage arms stuffed with baby fat, the absolute sweetest fat in the world. Oh, my darling, every time you hug me, it’s like the first time. The woolen sleeve of your candy-colored coat brushes my cheek. I am besieged by the fragrance of honeysuckle. My girl. There are no words for what you do to my heart.

As I helped drag your suitcases inside, you giggled about how you meant to surprise me, and how we had to keep your arrival a secret until dad got home from the restaurant, and oh how the look on my face was priceless.

You fell onto the couch and pulled off that tangerine knit ski cap, and my chin fell to my chest. Your hair. That beautiful jet black tangle of wires, you’d cut it all off. You told me how it was a nuisance during your travels. How the sand flies would take up residence within the waves as you journeyed through the Calamari, (our in-joke way of saying ‘Kalahari’.) My head wouldn’t stop shaking from side to side as you assured me, “It’s only hair, Papi, it’ll grow back.” I frowned and replied, “Lies! Mine didn’t!”

As we lay across your bed, looking at image after color soaked image on your laser pod multi-function screen, I was struck by the smiles of the children, and the sound of their laughter. How quick their eyes were, how knowing, how deep. Their eyes echoed in yours.

You told me how you taught them “The Song That Never Ends” on my birthday, as a way of celebrating me from across the world. You were convinced I felt it, and as I buried my face in what was left of your hair, I was convinced, too. I began to sing, muffled against your skull. You joined in. Quiet at first, building speed and volume until we were on our knees bouncing on the bed.

This is the song that never ends
It just goes on and on my friends
Some people started singing it
Not knowing what it was
And they’ll continue singing it
Forever just because
This is the song that never ends
It just goes on and on...

I open my eyes. The gold-plated afternoon light hangs softly all around me. The mint green sheets and down-filled comforter have absorbed my body heat. I am a toasty burrito. The antsy white window shade, conducted by a breeze, bangs out a rhythm against the sill. The remote control is on the pillow next to my head, it’s grown accustomed to sleeping there. The red an green lights of the DVR glow. It’s after three. Must be recording Oprah. My winter house uniform, inside-out sweatshirt and checked pajama bottoms, lie piled on top of the hardwood floor at the side of the bed where I dropped them before settling in for the most luxurious of luxuries - the afternoon nap. La siesta, la siesta, la siesta. This was a good one. I slept for at least 45 minutes, and I was dreaming...

I rise up on my elbows and look across the room at the green marble child’s urn on the mantle. Throw back the covers and run naked across the floor. It was you! You came to me again. I rest my head against the cold marble that holds the ashes of a 21 week old life. You were still born, and yet you still live in me. It’s been 10 months, and no one else understands, so it’s our secret. In dreams we carry on as if tragedy had passed us by. In dreams our relationship has texture, nuance and breath, but...

Oh, my sweet babygirl, you trouble me, when you show up unannounced.
You trouble me, when you smile at me from those Johnson’s baby product commercials.
You trouble me, when you catch my eye as you roll by in your stroller, at The Grove.
You trouble me, because I see your echo in their eyes.
You trouble me, because it may be days or weeks before I can let you go again.
You trouble me, but I don’t want you to stop.
I am the tortured man on the rack, begging for more. More. Más y más y más.

Josslyn, my sweet babygirl. Even when I sleep, you won’t let me go. You are the song that never ends