Sonset

Clink! Glass bottles toasted in the cardboard box as I set it on my cluttered coffee table. The motherload. I knew it… Thanks Dad.

That was the last of father’s things. My dark apartment still needed lamps, but it was lighter than my mood. I felt like life had shortchanged me and I couldn’t afford happiness—only cheap alcohol and maybe rent for the next few months. This delicate and familiar sound was profound to me. I felt a rush of relief realizing Dad was a hypocrite. Now, I could be disappointed because he had had a taste for it too. Like father like son.

Wish I could still tell him so.

I opened the box and found a collection of colognes instead. I swallowed spit that tasted like soured spirits. The bottles were an assortment of scents I had never heard of, and I could see most still had plenty of squirts left to spare except for one.

A conspicuous amber liquid had a breath or two left.

Sunlight grew in the room like God shined a flashlight inside. I didn’t have any curtains and could see the day was driving by. An unfamiliar city bloomed outside with taxis that reminded me of bees. Except what they were working for seemed more bitter than sweet. It reminded me that I needed to support myself, but I had no one else to support me. No friends or family here. And they didn’t want me back there.

I had nowhere that felt like home because I was living like the glass was half empty and those who wished for me to sober up had their last lick. My mom, family, and friends had relapsed on me too many times. They finally admitted that I was the problem they had been powerless to—no more.

But they couldn’t teach me what happiness was. They couldn’t hear I was crying inside; they couldn’t feel I was freezing; they couldn’t taste the fear; they couldn’t see I was sorry.

The only man who couldn’t let go of me was my father, but he also couldn’t hold onto life any longer. The Grim Reaper took his time with him and his illness. I was jealous of the robbed attention.

I picked up the cologne and gave it a swirl. Hope you don’t mind. I sprayed what was left on my wrists, neck, and shirt. I knew I’d probably offend some passerby on my routine wandering walk outside with the crashing wave of scent that smelled like—

Dad. My eyes closed and I felt him hug me. Strong yet sweetly gentle like he was. A jolting citrus heart tone gave rise to cardamom, black tea, and nutmeg. I was a boy again. The same one that envisioned instead of dreamed—saw that there was something in my father I wanted to be. He never felt ashamed of me, but I still felt shame.

Tears rutted down my cheeks and I felt an anxious rush like I had woken up late for work and would be fired for forgetting again. Through blurred vision, I spotted in the box a green, leather journal with a tree embroidered on it. I unraveled its leather cords and fumbled it to the floor seeing a flash of several handwritten pages.

I picked it up and read the title page, Letters to My Son. I shuddered and clapped it shut.

My nerves rumbled as I stood still with the fatherly scent surrounding me. I opened the journal and read the title again. I could hear his voice in mine. I wanted to hide. What would he think if he saw me today? I tossed the journal on my couch and started for the door.

I got halfway down the stairs when curiosity got the better of me. I felt strangely embarrassed walking back to my apartment to retrieve the book. Maybe I would read a page or two.

I took a different turn that afternoon. Some old houses were lining the streets like a broken zipper of a weathered jacket. I imagined all the families that must’ve been made in them—the lives lived—I wondered what kind of problems they had. I was nostalgic for the stability I never had. These buildings were like books, portals to other worlds where I could get lost in others’ lives. I realized I may have found something of mine—green was a nice color. Dad did have good taste.

The cologne felt like a warm breeze brushing my hair. I remembered Dad ruffling it when I was young, and how mad I would get. But it wasn’t anger. Anger came from how my parents never got along and made miserable company when they would be anywhere near each other.

Mom never told me why things went down the way they did between them. Dad always had some positive reframing that seemed to tire him over time. I still never heard his real story and wonder if he ever would have if he was still around. Maybe if I had really asked.

A tickle of the tangy-sweet scent whisked me away.

A rare moment when I caught Dad sobbing. We had some nasty back and forths that week, and I remember yelling and the feeling of tearing my vocal cords. I still can’t get over the strange guilt and relief that moment caused me. Guilt that I may have hurt him. Relief that he was hurt and pained over me—maybe he had nothing positive to say anymore. This was a moment that validated me but would never be validated in that I would never know what his tears were made of.

He was a good father. Too good for me.

I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold my breath drowning in drinking. I had often wondered how others weren’t so damaged by the same problems I had. Was I just weak? Was Dad really so strong?

There was a playground with a bench under a tree beginning to lose its leaves.

I soaked in the rays of the sun with a light chill from a gentle wind. The scents of the autumn air couldn’t compete with Dad’s cologne, yet I knew it would fade with time.

This sad thought led me to open the book.

Journal entries dating back years all addressed to me. I read the first few noticing my breathing was like the tide, giving and taking, coming and going. It was painful reading about Dad saying so much about what I was to him. A gift. I gave him purpose. I gave him lessons. I gave him stress that reminded him of how human we both were and how much he loved me.

I was reading answers I never knew the questions to—but there was one question I had in mind. I flipped through the pages looking for the day I saw him sobbing.

I felt quiet tears reverently running down my face. I was completely unaware of anyone or anything around me. I came upon that day in the book, or what I thought it may have been. Some lines grabbed my eyes.

What she did. I carry its weight for you. It is like a cancer inside me, but I never want it to reach you—to affect you—to make you other than the wonderful son you are.

My knuckles turned pale as a poltergeist gripping the leather ends of the book.

What she did? I stirred and wondered what truth I’d even get if I asked her. I was left in the dark all my life, but it never dawned upon me that my father seemed to suffer for it. He bottled it up for me.

I have tried all my life to be a good father. I will always love you. To see you finally happy, I would die for you. Hopefully, my next entries will be a little sunnier. -Dad

What I’d do to see him again. I cried until the sun was setting but knew I would need to rise again tomorrow and face the same pains, fears, and failures. I was scared to go home knowing what was waiting for me there in my cabinet.

I stayed for as long as I could searching the stars through city smog for some solace.

I won’t die for you Dad, but I’ll live.