The Man Who Woke Up Every Day And It Was The Nineties

a very sad very short story

He wakes up every day and remembers, oh, right, she left and I'm divorced.

That's his first thought. He wakes up and sees the racially ambiguous slavic-asian woman on the other side of the double bed, still asleep, snoring in the way that when you are in love, is precious, because it humanizes her from the glamorous heights your esteem holds her in, and you see her as human, precious and vulnerable. But when you see a stranger, the humanizing is revolting, and you see weakness and flesh and biology. Animal. And it is yourself that is taken down from a height.

He remembers her, and he remembers the adopted daughter, and he remembers all the nice times, of feeling young even though he isn't. Then he remembers the ones that didn't work out.

He wakes up in her house, in her bedroom. It's colder, cheaper, newer. He remembers he is helping her fix it. He remembers the hole in the roof and the broken circuit board.

His own house is nicer and older and better. He remembers it. It's empty and lonely. No one lives there any more. They live in hers. He remembers. He remembers trying to fill the empty house. How lonely it was without the dog. He remembers why they aren't living there.

He remembers the boys. 8 and 12. The best age for boys. It's heaven on earth. And they are so unlike brothers, they never fight. Not like he did with his brothers. They're best friends. Older one takes care of his little brother. He's so proud of him. Then he remembers they aren't 8 and 12 but in their 30ies.

He remembers his little baby brother is making more money than him, and has a nicer house. A lot more.

His son is a addict. Just like his own older brother. His older brother is in a home. He remembers his dad is dead. He remembers his 8 year old baby boy towering over him at the funeral, and he remembers crying into his shoulder. Trembling. His little baby boy.

He gets out of bed to get ready for work. He remembers he's not a teacher any more. They gave him a boy they asked to treat like a girl, and acted like it was normal, and he didn't push back. 10 years ago, in the 80s, he remembers contacting social services for less. But now he's not a teacher any more.

61 is closer to 70 than to 60. Time moves so fast now.

Every morning.

He calls his son at work. They are distant and professional.

My beautiful boy in my arms at the hospital, being born.

My beautiful boy crying blood on the pavement, dying.

He wants to say, I'm sorry I couldn't save you. He tries to say forgive me. His teenage son is dying and there is nothing he can do. He tries to say my Dad is dead and I am so lost and you are my anchor but I am afraid to touch you, because you are 12 years old and dying on the pavement. You are crying blood and limb and heavy and I am afraid that if I touch you, you will die. He speaks the words 20 years ago, but his boy is 20 years away and it takes 20 years to arrive, and the sound that comes out of his mouth is talking about his girlfriend’s daughter. She is so much like you, he hears himself say. She is like if you had been a girl.

They don't have a long time to talk. Lunch break is over. They are both busy and far far away. Days are so short now and there is so much to do, and they are so old, and there is such a long time from the 90s to tomorrow. And their bodies are so weak. And the weight is so heavy, and the world is so big, and time is so, so endless, and we, we are not.

See you next week at the nursing home thing, his son says. I have to get back to work. I love you dad