He glanced over at her. Looking through her crystal eyes it was clear it was over. What used to flare with yellow sparks of passion was now grey with exhaustion. It was time to stop trying, stop gluing together pieces that weren’t meant to fit. After twenty-one years, two kids, and a graduation, the conclusion was nothing but bitter. Some things are better broken, and this was one of them.
Eleven years later, he’s sitting on the porch. He snaps the lid of a Busch Lite and the bubbles fizz. The cold refresh fills his vacant body, bringing him afloat. A sharp wind pierces his cheek and he pulls the edges of his hat down. The leaves hang dead on the dried branches, falling from a light blow. He peers out to the road, a blur of reds and browns crossing his vision. The once so vibrant trees, left naked, their pedals shriveling on the ground, to be impaled with rakes and torn apart by soles.
He imagines the girl stomping on them. She would chase her tail around him as he played catch with the boy, her shoes lighting up with each step. She jumped for the ball until out of breath, eventually laying in the tall grass of the field. Soon she discovered the piles. She ran wildly throughout the field, diving into each one until they were scattered once again. When there were no more, he and the boy would go out and rake another playground for her. When the sky lost color, she would fall asleep in the field. He would know from the silence and grab a blanket. He found her in the tall grasses almost every time. He wrapped her in the cloth and carried her to bed, placing her next to Mrs. Daisy Rabbit, because he knew she liked to wake up beside her. Then, he’d return to his empty bed, wondering when his Mrs. would be home.
He doesn’t remember what Daisy looks like anymore. Just a blur in his aged memory. The girl however, has never escaped his mind. Every detail, from her bouncing pigtails to her flickering yellow iris, lingers in his every thought. He could almost feel her petite fingers wrapped around his thumb.
He takes another sip.
He can see the boy too, if he really thinks. It’s hard to remember him young, full of laughter and dreams. When he closes his eyes, he only sees the boy in age. He sees the terminal as his baby boards, waving goodbye. The boy’s curly locks shaved and covered by a cap of camouflage.
A hot tear rolls down his cheek. He wonders what they would look like now.
The gray sky grows darker, and the lamps illuminate the road. The cars flash by, but one slows at the end of the drive. Coming up the long path, he attempts to list who it could be. Only knowing the mailman to come to the door, he waits in curiosity.
The car stops and the lights turn off. He stands up, ducking to see through the windshield.
Tall boots step out of the car, followed by a yellow flowered dress and long curly locks held by a knit cap. In her gloved hand hangs a rabbit, sagging ears and worn with age.
Her round cheeks and gleaming eyes twinkle to the color of her dress. She shuffles familiarly to the porch through the fallen leaves. Her movements resemble something he knows. Then he realizes it.
She looks just like her mother. Just then the words fall out of her mouth, locking eyes with the man on the porch.
“Dad, it’s me.”