He brought back the best of me.
He’s showing me it’s normal to feel sadness after a loved one passes away, and if you don’t grieve, you simply don’t have a heart.
No one is perfect, and us being able to share a connection together so strong is rare.
Leonidas has made me love myself again.
He’s right. It’s been four years, and even though I’ve struggled to listen to the one thing Dad and I adored together, something inside of me tells me it is time to let go. If I don’t fight for my happiness, the pain will always hold me as its prisoner.
My life is worth fighting for.
I have a purpose.
I’m stronger than I think.
I haven’t felt this specific feeling in a while. I’m hopeful. Even after all the pain I went through for years, I did it today. It relaxed me when my boyfriend sang to me. That might sound silly to some people, but it’s huge for me. I’m so glad I did it with Leonidas. I wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else.
“You’re a poet,” is all I can seem to say. I lift my face from his chest and peer into his beautiful chocolate-brown eyes. “You always seem to say all the right things at the right time.”
“Only for you.”
Chuckling, I grip his chin. “It’s true. Your voice is like gold.”
“Baby, I’m not gold. I’m coal,” he bluntly jokes, squeezing my sides.
“You’re gold to me, and that’s all that matters.”
His forehead drops onto mine. “You’d better damn remember how fucking proud of you I am.”
Our noses brush against each other as I whisper, “And you’d better not forget I’m your biggest fan. I’ll always be number one.”
FORTY-THREE
TRINITY
My eyes stare at the white door.
It usually haunts me, taunting me to step inside to be reminded of all the things I’ve tried to forget. This time, I don’t feel the usual dread. I’m braver now, and I mock my fears back, edging them on until they dim and I’m left with peace.
I have to understand that Dad isn’t coming back. Some silly part of me hoped he still would even though I had seen him being buried in the ground. I hoped that this was just some cruel dream that I would wake up from.
After years of sadness, constant grief, and trauma, I need to fight hard for my life and be the girl my dad raised me to be. I’ve now realized that the memories of him will not always cause me pain, but I’ll find comfort in them.
My hand slightly shakes as I place it on the gold door handle. Turning it softly, I push the door open. My eyes roam around the room that Mom and Dad used to share. Now, his side of the bed is always cold and empty.
Mom never brings Rodrigo around here to stay the night. I know she does that for me, and some part of me appreciates that because I know deep down, she cares for me. She just has a bad way of showing it. She runs away from her problems. But I know I was guilty of doing that before I met Leonidas.
If her being with Rodrigo makes her happy, then who am I to ruin that for her? She needs happiness in her life. I won’t be the evil one to take that all away from her.
My feet slowly step into the room. It feels weird, being in here after years. I haven’t stepped foot in their room since that day. I didn’t want to look around his room and see his stuff lying around, untouched. I was able to listen to music for the first time. If I can do that, then walking around his room will be a piece of cake.
My footsteps are slow. I roam my eyes over every inch of his room. Pain immensely consumes every single bone in my body when my eyes land on a picture perched on his bedside table.
My hands shake as I pick it up. This photograph was taken years ago. I study Dad like I’ll be having an exam on how he looks. I forgot Mom took this photo. I remember the awe in my dad’s eyes when he looked at it after Mom took it. We’re sitting on our swing. Dad has his signature wooden guitar on his lap. I’m beside him, holding his arm like my life depends on it. We both smile at my mom. My eyes immediately go to the gap where one of my two front teeth should be.
I was around seven when this picture was taken. Pure bliss was written on both of our faces. From the moment my dad played his guitar, I fell in love. I loved the thought of creating art with music. Telling a story, but not writing a book to be read.
I place the photo down in its place and take a step back. Dad isn’t with me anymore. He’s not here to hold my hand and let me cry on his shoulder when I’m having an awful day. The love of music I have buried deep within me is something he gave to me. So, even though he’s gone and I’ll never see his bright smile, I’ll always have that thing in common with him.
