Leaving Myself Behind

[Nathan Tompkins]

My thoughts were the screaming gale winds of a typhoon. I lay in the bed, alone, struggling to organise my mind, to give it peace, so I may sleep. I could not. I twisted my body into knots with the cooling sheets, sometimes I would turn on the bedside lamp, and read a few sentences, before battling visions invaded my inner eyes, images of me holding my 9 month old daughter, while she rained enough tears to end the drought.
I would sway my body clutching her in my arms, as I sang to her softly in her ear, in an effort to ease her tears, songs like The Wind That Shakes the Barley, Waltzing Matilda, Born in East Virginia, and others, steeped in traditions found on three continents. This night she was sleeping on the lounge in the TV room, snuggled with my upset snoring wife. I endeavoured to gain my rest alone.
Other times, I grasped the remote control in my weary fist, and turned on the incessant aggravating noise from the television, in hopes the idiocy coming from this machine would numb my brain, hypnotise me into just enough of a human drone, a golem if you will, that I might close my eyes and visit my dreams. No, that didn't work either. So in angry frustration I shut the bloody thing off, and tossed and turned some more.
By this time with the impending events circling through my mind, threatening to break my severed heart, I thrust back the blanket, and the sheets from my body, and jumped up out of the bed. I stepped up to the bedroom window, pushing a fragment of the lavender curtain aside, lifting my eyes to the sky. It was a clear crisp winter night, the southern stars were dancing a merry jig, their bodies glistening with the joyous sweat of their labours, as they sang the song of life to the slowly revolving earth. I touched the glass panes with my fingertips, sliding them along the smooth surface, feeling the cold from the outside prickle my skin.
Then, I heard the siren wails, of a baby girl, letting all in the house hold know, that she was awake and unhappy. I quickly got dressed, shorts and a t-shirt, and rushed out of the room, to where my daughter lay with her mum. "She's wet. Needs her nappy changed," her mum said.
"All right, then. Give her here."
But she didn't, instead she rose from the grey lounge, where she made her bed, and carried Jacinta into the bedroom. She laid her on the matted bench, struggling to hold our daughter's incautious form, so she did not roll off the bed, with her squirming. She grabbed hold of Jacinta's wiggling feet, and proceeded to change her nappy, through the howls bursting from her lungs. I sang to her Little Bunny Foo Foo, quieting her cries, as she stared at me with her blue eyes, sometimes even giggling when I bopped my forehead, the hollow beat ringing through the thick bone of my skull. Her mum finished the job, and I picked Jacinta from where she lay, bouncing her up and down along my hip, singing to her, while her fingers curiously traced the green serpent painted on my arm.
Her mum took her from me, and walked back into the TV room, sitting on the soft cushions of the love seat, not looking at me, and not speaking to me (though the latter was a slight improvement over the previous night's battle). I shook my head and stalked back to the bedroom, and began my restless journey through the night, waiting for the sun to announce his presence in the sky.
Gradually, dawn came for me, the damp salty air, bringing with it a slight chill that midwinter morning in July. I gathered my bags, two backpacks, and an old sea bag, all stuffed with electronics, clothing, and gifts. I tried to eat, but could only pick through the breakfast before me, hunger a ghost distantly keening in some outback graveyard, far from where I was then.
The distressing moment came all too soon, as I loaded my bags onto the bus, and rushed to my little girl, where she was held by her maternal grandmother. One last time I kissed Jacinta's toothless mouth, tenderly stroked her flaxen hair, the wispy strands brushing over her ears. Her grandmother lifted a tiny hand to wave it at me, saying, "Bye, Daddy!" I stepped onto the bus with my wife, and we sat down. I leaned over her to grasp one last glance of my daughter, as the bus began to roll toward Brisbane.
The silence was murder. Her glacial demeanour refusing to liquefy, as the kilometres trundled passed, all too quickly to the international airport. She would ask me how I was doing, and if I was ok. I would respond tell her I'm ok, but not daring to say anything more, in fear of my voice shattering into the sobs that threatened to wreak havoc.
The bus arrived at the airport. We stepped off to the hurry to the check in counter, where I dropped off a couple of bags. Then we strolled to the customs gate, kissing each other before it, but her kisses were formal, no love held within, no spark generating heat, as we bade each other goodbye. Then I walked onto the escalator, descended down, away from the woman I married, and away from my daughter.
I walked through customs, rushing to the plane, as it was already boarding. I embarked onto the sky vessel, waved farewell to Brisbane, bid goodbye to the Dreamtime, as we flew on the 26 hour trip, the first stop Auckland.
I'll not bore you with too many details from this long painful trip, from Brisbane to Portland. I did not sleep. I read, listened to music, watched movies, drank beer and wine at every stop, (Auckland, LA, San Francisco) and on the plane, all in effort to force sleep unto my weary body, all was in vain. All I accomplished as I landed at PDX was being half drunk, exhausted, and itching to be back in Oz, not necessarily to be with the woman I married, but to be with my daughter, nine months old, just learned to crawl, and now beginning to take her first tentative steps into a wider world.
My parents picked me up, that night, and drove me home, I sat listening to mum giving me local and family news, barely speaking, dozing off in the back seat, on the hour long drive. I arrive home and drank a couple of chamomile tea, each with two shots of Jameson's, to dull my fagged senses, and in the attempt to hold the sorrows away, at least for this one night.
She was just nine months old, the last time I saw her, when I said goodbye. She is five years old now, barely knowing who I am. I wrote her a letter a couple of years ago, which I have not sent, as I am not sure she would understand, as she is a bit young yet. I have the letter still, in my files, and one day I will give it to her, in person, but will she know me?

My Dear Jacinta,

I use to believe I hated Christmas most of all the dreaded lonesome holidays, as I
imagined you waking up that summer morning with the early sun oozing hot warnings of the coming heat through the Queensland sky, small blue eyes glistening as you squealed and laughed, blonde hair bouncing with each giggling jump, with childish anticipation at the wrapped presents mounted below the plastic tree.
But now, I realise it is Father’s Day, whether it be in June or September, that drives the dagger home through my already shattered heart as I imagine scenes of what might have been. Your small gentle arms wrapped tightly around my throat, as you leap into my eager arms and yell out, “Daddy!” when I slowly open the door after a long tired day at work. You lying in your bed, smiling at playful dreams of doggies, lavender flowers, and koala bears, as I kneel down, softly brush the yellow strands of hair from your face, and lay my lips on your warm sweet forehead after a late night at the pub writing. You sitting in my lap still as a little girl could be,listening to me read you poetry, either my own, or by those whose footsteps I follow, including that sweet sad poem you were named for, or I would regale you with tales of knights and dragons, dwarves and elves, the heroic deeds of Fionn mac Cumhaill and Cú Chullainn, or my own travels and adventures in Tir na nÓg and my years spent dancing with the sídhe. Hearing your Australian voice whisper, “I love you, Daddy” as you caress the red fur on my face with your loving lips with a loud and decisive smack.
I gaze at your pictures and my heart aches as I wonder, am I just an abstract figure in a hazy photograph, which you are told is your daddy? A strange American voice over the
telephone telling you “I Love you, Jacinta”? A mere ghost at the edge of your tiny existence as formless as the morning mist? What am I to you?
Know this, Jacinta, I will always love you and hold you tightly in my heart, and that
although I may not be standing beside you or holding you tightly to my breast, softly singing, soothing your hurts and fears, that I will still be there. Slán go fóíll, a chuisle mo chroí. See you in my dreams.

With love,

Daddy