Pacing
The sound of pacing bare feet on hardwood floors wakes me up out of a sound sleep. I check my phone- Its 2:13 am. The air is thick with pain.
Slowly I extricate myself from the blankets that envelope my body.
I blindly grope around the dark bedroom for my slippers and a sweatshirt. It's cold downstairs.
I follow the sound of bare footfalls into the kitchen. My father is pacing. Pacing in tight circles around our small table. Pacing. Pacing.
"Hey dad" I call softly. He doesn't respond or acknowledges me. His eyes are open, but his mind is back in the 1980s. He is reliving the worst parts of his nightmares over and over again. I wonder which ghost has come to visit tonight. My eyes brim with tears. Two tears escape; creating twin rivers of saltwater on my cheeks. It never gets easier for him or me.
I take a seat at the breakfast bar and wait. Letting him face this alone is not something I can let him do. When he finally looks at me as if he's looking for me- I'll be here- waiting.
The blue glow of the microwave clock throws a cool light across the kitchen. It's 3:31 am. His gait is starting to slow. This is a good sign.
4:15 am. My dad stops pacing. He slowly turns towards me, his eyes glistening with suppressed tears and a dazed expression. His exhaustion is tangible.
Recognizing that this is the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, I quickly stand up and make my way towards him. My outstretched arm pulls him into a tight embrace. I can hear his ragged, emotional breaths in my ear. After a moment, I release him from my grasp. We walk to the living room and take our spots on the couch- him to go to sleep- me to keep myself awake until it's time to get ready for work.
Not a word is spoken. It's not needed.
