It's The Sweet Faces That Haunt Me

“Friends will arrive, friends will disappear.” – Bob Dylan

I’m thinking of you today. I have been since your demise. You were my child's friend. You were a welcomed presence in our home. You were a laugh I heard from down the hall. An extra dinner plate at the table. Another bike in the driveway. You were a period of time. And now you're gone. Buried. Beyond. You should be witnessing possibilities. Instead, you saw none. I fear you’ll be forgotten. The dead often times are. 

“Quiet down, damn it!” That was the wisdom I imparted. That was the introduction I made. That was my contribution to the moment. That was the presence I made. Words ignored. Words dead. Wasted, weak words. Teenagers snicker at demands. But not you. You were a sweet-faced boy. You were of a different kind.

At the top of the steps is where I tried to play parent, barking directions into a basement gone dark. A space where teenagers gravitate, congregate, migrate. A space where the confused share secrets, plot schemes, devise theories, escape parents, rearrange pressure, flee expectations, mock pretentiousness, dare time. There, high above all, on the ledge of impatience, I gave instructions with authority I abhor. That’s where I stood upright, tight-lipped, actively aging, irrelevant, a nuisance. That’s where I saw your sweet face. That’s where I saw those sad eyes. I knew you were doomed. You were bound for pain. You were too respectful. Too kind. Too decent. Your face spoke your future.

It’s the sweet faces that haunt me, break me down, tunnel deep, trigger sentimentality into motion. It’s the sweet faces that give me worry, make me anxious, leave me desperate, sap my fight. It’s the sweet faces that drown me. It’s the sweet faces that don’t fight back, won't fight back, can’t fight back, won't survive. It’s the soft eyes that do them in. That give them away. They see but aren’t seen. That know but aren’t understood. I’d seen those eyes before.

I wish you’d escaped that basement before it was too late. I wish you'd realized then that youthful bliss can last. That it only softens you more. It only leaves you farther behind. The world is cold. People are unforgiving. Thoughts are wicked. I wish your eyes had turned cold. I wish you’d learned to fight. I wish you’d lifted your words. I wish you’d stepped forward, not to the side. I wish you’d known independence. Felt the power of survival. I wish your sweet face had grown to become weathered, stained, hardened. But such a face would have betrayed your nature. One that moved me. Deepened my love for my own children. That haunts me years on.