Holding On

Holding On

Holly Watson

I tried to hold just your index finger as we crossed the street.  Your hand was so large, and mine was tiny in comparison.  I was sure it would be swallowed and crushed if I were to place it in your strong palm, but you snatched your finger back and swiped your arm down to my side, tightly grasping my hand in yours.  You told me to stop playing, that the street was no place for that.  You told me to hold on to your hand, that you would not lose me.  But there was no love in your voice, no sincerity, only frustration with a silly little girl who was slowing you down.  I didn’t want to hold your hand.  I didn’t want to hold on to you, but you made me.  You reluctantly forced yourself into my life and held on to me for a while. 

When you left, I couldn’t stop holding on.  I remembered your hands, the hands that held mine not so many years ago.  I remembered the large gold ring that you wore on your left ring finger, and the watch I would pretend to fix while sitting in your lap.  I remembered the way you used to fold your hands together and hold your slightly bent thumbs against your lips after telling me to listen for the train.  I never learned how to make the low haunting whistle that always sounded so lonely and sad to me.  I remember your hands holding my worn white tennis shoes, swiftly wrapping your fingers around the laces to form perfect little bows.  When you tried to teach me, there were no rabbits, or trees, or holes into which the dogs or squirrels could jump.  I didn’t understand, but mama taught me later.

Mama taught me many things, many things that you should have taught me instead; but most of all she taught me how to hold on.  She taught me how to hold on to the important things, the ones we love, and the memories that we have of them.  But more than that she taught me how to hold on to things that it would be better to release.  She kept mementos of her life with you.  She mourned you when you left her for another woman and another life, and she continued to hold on to you in her heart.  I held on to you too.  You were no longer there to hold on to my hand, but somehow you still managed to make me feel small, irrelevant.  But still I held on.  Still I wanted the father that I believed you could be.            

When I was pregnant with my first child, I was still holding on to you, still wondering why you left, why, as your child, I could not somehow make you feel fulfilled, why you forced yourself onto me only to pull away again.  I hadn’t seen you for nearly ten years, but I still felt like that child that you had rejected.  The drive to Georgia to see you again was uncomfortable and awkward.  When I walked into my aunt’s, your sister’s, house, you were sitting there quietly, as if nothing had happened, but you had changed. 

I remembered you as tall and handsome, a strong man who could conquer the world if only he could quit holding on to his demons as easily as he could quit holding on to me.  You were smart and charismatic.  You could walk into a room and grab everyone’s attention, but now your were broken.  Not even a shadow of what I so clearly remembered remained.  What was left of your once thick black hair was now wispy and gray.  Your back was crooked and head bowed.  You knew you were broken too.  But what upset me the most was your voice.  I hadn’t expected that to change.  The dominant masculine voice that had crushed me so many times as a child was now weak with a strong high-pitched nasal tone.  You had destroyed yourself.

That night in the hotel, I wondered if it had all been worth it to you.  You left your wife and abandoned your child to hold on to another woman, but she never wanted to hold on to you.  She left you once you got to Georgia, and you were either too ashamed or too proud to return to your family.  It’s strange how similar shame and pride are in their ability to destroy.  In self-pity, you isolated yourself and held on only to your vices, drinking yourself into a stupor day in and day out, refusing to eat or communicate with those who still so desperately wanted to hold on to you.  Finally, your body succumbed to the trials through which you put it.  Your brain could no longer withstand the trauma of your abuse, and it started to deteriorate.  One by one, you lost your memories.  You could not remember a conversation for more than half an hour, and slowly your mind forced you to let go of the past several years of your life.  When I saw you again, you did not recognize me.  You thought that your little girl was still eight years old, innocent and ignorant of her father’s sins.  You held on to that image of a child who adored you and only wanted your affection in return, but she was gone.  I was left in her place, and I finally realized that the father that I had been holding on to for so many years never fully existed.  Like the child in your mind, he was merely a phantom, and I could finally let go of the man who never wanted to hold on to me.