Daddy is dying…

‍

‍

Peter Le’Ore tucked his daughter Lucy into her bed. The young girl wore blond straight hair that glistened with innocence. She was only eight years old. Old for a frog, but she was just a little human. She begun to cry.

“What's wrong baby?” Peter asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“You are going to get old and die,” she said.

“Oh honey, you don’t have to worry about that, I am here with you now, I'm just a baby.”

“Why don’t I have to worry?” she asked.

“Because I am here.”

Her tears of grief did not subside and she spoke with a whimpering bottom lip, “No, I know you are here, but one day you will die and be gone.”

She was inconsolable, or rather, Peter did not know what to say to his daughter that could make her feel better without a potential mind shaping lie.

“Lucy darling, give me a cuddle.”

Peter lay beside her and asked if she wanted to read her favourite book and she said no, she wanted to roll over and feel the weight of her thoughts. Peter kissed her on the cheek and said goodnight.

The rest of the house was empty, other than spirits, ghouls, goblins and an array of useless junk. Lucy’s mother was in India, they were not together but shared respect and a mutual love for their creation. She was in India to find herself. Peter thought to himself, ‘I hope she finds someone who isn’t selfish enough to leave their daughter for three months’ but he never let it leave his mind, it just sat there and he knew with time it would blossom into something nicer. Peter cleaned the kitchen and then made sure Lucy had everything she needed for school the next day, when the chores were done he was left with free time to think. Opening the back door, leaving it slightly ajar to hear any commotion that tends to come when you have a child. He put tobacco into his pipe and looked at the sky. The night sky looked like the inside of his head, full of clouds, he knew with time and a bit of force all the stars behind them would be revealed. So he sifted through as as he smoked and felt like Carl Jung.

How do you explain death to an eight-year-old?’ was the question he gave to his soul. The nicest answer would be that you don’t, that an eight-year-old is only eight years away from the spirit world, Peter was 45, or, thanks to the fragility of our mortality, he could drop dead right now. The truth is that Peter did not hold any truth. None that could be explained to his daughter without an essay or theories and forty-five years of unpacking and understanding. Peters’ parents were both alive, so he could not enter the mind of his own to relate to Lucy, although, he thought, ‘How do I feel about my parents dying?’

And he didn’t, because he didn’t think about it. With smoking a pipe and looking into the night you tend to poke feelings and thoughts before reality creates them for you. Peters’ thoughts quickly throw ignorance to him, to dismiss any true sorrow. He wanted to have four bottles of wine and wake up to words he cant remember writing, but he was a father and he couldn’t. There was an old notebook left on the table outside, a pen he had used to circle his picks in the form guide. An avid punter. He wrote,

For many years I was scared of my dad dying because we never truly met each other. At a young age he was dad, and then one day, as if I stepped into someone else’s body, he was still dad, but it was different. I was growing into a man and he was already a man, and now we are two men who love each other, but could not express that. I wanted to become mates with my dad. Then he bought an old red Monaro fifteen years ago. I did not give two fucks about cars but it was his secret little interest. He took it apart and rebuilt it, and I did it with him. For the first few times the awkwardness made us both want to run away, then that passed., I kept coming back. Then he started to talk to me about mum, about my brothers, about his brothers, his work, and sometimes even his stress. I did too. We took ourselves apart the same way we took the car apart. After two years it was done and my dad was a person that I liked and loved. Then Lucy came along, and now a man gets to show the love they cant to each other to a little version of them, knowing its all mixed up. What a great dad and what a great run, when he goes, he better give me the Monaro. My mum, I don’t know, that is something I will not know until it happens. I hope we get a chance to say goodbye. I hope I get a chance to say goodbye to both of them before I'm gone.

‍It was all a bit personal for him to get to any fundamental thought beneath the sentimentality. “What is that information going to do for an eight-year-old,” he said, whilst setting alight to the paper, slowly watching the ink he used burn into the night. Peter had his own opinions on the matter. That we are just a manifestation of energy clumped together like a whirlpool in a running river. Concentrated into the realm of the senses to observe the swirl and sift back into the flow of the stream. That when you die, you just get back to everything. You are water, the river, the ocean, you just go back to being everything.

I will always love you, and I will always exist for you, even if I am not here to prove it.

Peter started to adopt the sadness Lucy showed him, a part of him hoped he had taken it away from her, but it just grew to consume them both. Now he really wanted a wine. So he walked in and filled a beer glass half full, finished it in one, did that three times and then took the half full glass back into his thinking spot. He knew Lucy was still awake, it was just something he could feel, even if she was on the other side of the world. Peter drew a photo of a lady and gave her a nice dress with long legs and he tried to draw arms and hands and they ruined the whole thing, so he wrote my lady, abstract and beautiful. He did not know what to do, so he decided to witness himself live with lucy, and walked into her room and laid by her side. Lucy rolled towards him, put her little cute head on his chest and the small weight of that little skull, full of worry and love did not speak.

“When I was a boy I had a dog” said Peter,

“Ralph?” she knew from photos.

“Yeah, Ralphy.”

“And the whole time I had him I was always scared he was going to die.”

Lucy stayed silent, listening better than any adult could.

“He was my best friend, and life was very tough with the way I saw things back then. I felt like the world hated me, but in Ralphs eyes, no matter what was happening, what I did, he always loved me. I knew I would not be able to survive without him.”

“What happened?” she asked.

“One day, I felt a lump on his neck and I took him to the vet, and they told me he had cancer and he was going to die.”

“Like hotdog Nan?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he have boobs?”

“No, he didn’t get breast cancer, with dogs they just have all the same cancer. You cant cure it, just prolong it, and three weeks after I found out, I had to take him and have him put down.”

“What's that?” she asked,

“They put a needle in and it makes him go to sleep.”

“Forever.”

“I am not sure baby.”

“Did you cry?”

“Yes, I cried with him. I was very lucky, because I had a gift that is not promised. You know when we got to go to the hospital and say goodbye to hotdog nan?”

“Yes, we got McDonalds and you got stuck in the slide.”

“I forgot about that,” Peter laughed, Lucy laughed too.

“Uncle Roy had to pull you out by your feet and I could see his bum crack.”

The little laugh gave the energy of the room some love and freedom, like releasing a bit of air from a balloon.

“Are you going to die like Ralph?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Now Lucy was being brave, tears falling from her body but her mind stayed calm.

“I held Ralph and I cried with him, and I told him I loved him. I love you so much Ralphy.”

Peter used lucy as a prop and kissed her head ten times as if she was Ralph.

“mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa… I love you so much Ralphy.”

“I don’t want you to die Daddy.” she said,

“I don’t want too either my love, but I want you to know, that I will always be here. Always, and when you feel sad, because one day I will die, I want you to come and find me and give me a kiss and tell me you love me.”

“And what about when you are gone?”

“Then I want you to close your eyes and think of me, I promise I will be there for you. If you just listen, I will talk to you.”

He rubbed her back,

“And I will tell you that your farts stink!”

Lucy laughed.

“Ok.” she said.

“Promise?” said peter, putting his little finger out.

“Pinkie promise dad.”

A little while later, whilst peter looked at the stars, he felt Lucy fall asleep, he felt calmness. He did not know if it was a good lesson or not, you don’t really know, you can just try. The moon smiled at its own reflection in his eyes, he finished his wine and before walking to bed he said, “Love you Ralphy.”

Ralph didn’t have to say it back, no one did, he already knew.