I Know I'll Make You Proud

Carefully, I place the cardboard shipping box on the floor of the basement. A thick layer of dust has formed across the top of it, a result of its years spent in my step-mother's attic. Only now that she is dead do I at long last get to lay my hands upon what was rightfully mine all along.

I remove an old pocket knife from my back pocket, slicing the strapping tape delicately away. I fold the flaps of the box downward, instantly taken aback by what I see.

Laying on the very top of the box in an ornately-carved wooden frame, is an old photograph of my father and me. It was taken when I was five years old. He took me to the park that day to teach me how to fly a kite the proper way, but it ended up being him, not me, who sent the kite crashing down onto a park bench. Needless to say, the kite was destroyed.

I look closely at myself in the photo, and into the eyes and soul of the man I so yearn to become. The photo was taken in the summer of 2000, right when things were beginning to go downhill for him. His eyes, so unbelievably brown, should have been filled with light on that happy day...and in a way, they were. They showed a faint sparkle which was so rarely seen in those days. But beneath the pale shimmer, pain was evident. The grin he wears in this picture seems...well...not really "fake," but FORCED...as if he had only been allowing himself to relish in happiness for a brief moment, when underneath it all he wasn't really happy at all.

An aura of naiveté surrounds me in the photo. My five-year-old grin, lopsided and jubilant, should have been enough in its own to brighten my father's life...but it wasn't.

I sigh as I place the framed photo aside, reaching into the box for a stack of envelopes. They are filled with my report cards, various drawings, and other paraphernalia from my years in kindergarten, first, and second grades...the only years of my schooling he was alive to see.

I can't help but smirk at the pathetically-drawn Father's Day card on the bottom of the stack. On the front, in extremely childish writing, are the words "Hopy Father's Day Dade" which, of course, should have read, "Happy Father's Day, Daddy." Below the simple greeting is a picture of a "frog" sitting under an umbrella, but the frog looks more like the monster I used to think inhabited the dark corner between my closet and dresser, which Dad always had to keep lit with a night-light to scare the monster away. The inside shows a lop-sided pink heart that reads, "I lov yu!"

I am getting to the bottom of the box now, but there are still a few items left. One is the first poem I ever wrote, which Dad took to be a symbol of my "inner musician" coming alive. All it says is, "The big ber woked thru the trees. He saw sum bees. Yes that is whot he sees," which is translated to, "The big bear walked through the trees. He saw some bees. Yes, that is what he sees."

'Stupid kid,' I silently address the child I used to be while reaching for the last item in the box...it is a shoe box labeled "FOR MY SON".

Opening the shoe box, I am at first disappointed, then startled, by what I find. A single sheet of lined notebook paper is folded-up on the bottom of the box. I pick it up, unfold it, and read the note, which is dated the day of his death...

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Hey Kiddo,
I can't bear the thought of leaving you, but it's something I must do. All my life I've gone through things that...well, things that no person should ever have to endure.

Growing up, I had to deal with a lot of ridicule, rumors, and misconceptions that people dealt me. The only reason they ever put me down in the first place is because I couldn't be the same as everyone...I had this need within me to be DIFFERENT. I suppose that was because I WAS different. It's okay to be different, but I just wasn't strong enough to deal with it.

Not like you, son...you, you're so much stronger than I could ever be. Even though you're my son and I am your father, I always admired you for your strength...so evident at such a young age.

I suppose one thing you'd like to know is, "Daddy, WHY?" Well, when I met your mother and she gave birth to you, things were good. I was happy because I had two wonderful people in my life...a gorgeous woman, the love of my life, who would always be there for me to give me support whenever the need be. And you...my own life and blood, created so lovingly. I knew things would be okay, and because of you, I even gave up drinking, which was an extremely difficult thing for me to do.

But things WEREN'T always okay. Problems arose between your mother and me, and as you know, we separated. I wish that could have been avoided, because then I would have been okay. I was riding the waves of success, fueled by the immeasurable support of your mother, when suddenly it was all gone.

I couldn't handle being alone, so I found myself with your step-mother. In a way, yes, I love her, but not the way I love your mother. With your step-mother, I just needed someone to come home to and be with, and well, you know what I mean. That physical need to be with another human, regardless of whether or not the feeling's real.

Well, at any rate, what am I really getting at? I have found that the need within me to be loved by your mother will never be filled again by anyone, and since I know she does not hold me dear to her any longer, I must go. There is no other way around it, really. You may not yet understand why you were not enough to keep me here...I hope someday you will understand. A Soul Mate is so unbelievably wonderful that you would give up anything and everything, your whole essence, just to please them...to make them happy...to insure that their life will always remain at its fullest, so that they will never grow cold and sad...your mother was and is my Soul Mate, son.

I need her in my life or I am not happy. I have plummeted downwards, reaching the edge of an eternally-spanning canyon...with nothing but steel spikes and torment waiting for me below. But even in Hell, where perhaps I will forever be banished and submitted to unthinkable acts of torture and pain...it will be worth it. For if I cannot be happy with your mother, then I will be happy with no one.

I wish I could be at your wedding, son, like you were at mine (that seems a bit ironic and mixed-up, doesn't it?). I wish I could have seen your face when your first permanent tooth came in...your first A+ on a spelling bee, or being there for you to heal all your scrapes and bruises. I will forever curse myself for missing your birthdays...your graduation...your wedding...your first moment in the public eye...oh god, I'll hate not being able to see YOUR children.

I don't know what the other side has in store for me, or even if there is an other side at all, but I will try my utmost best to see that you are watched carefully and guided as I never was. Please stay strong for me, and never give up, no matter what other people tell you. My son, I love you.

Daddy

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Sniffling and crying uncontrollably, I fold the letter back up and stick it in my pocket. Wiping the stream of tears from my eyes, I walk over to the basement stairs. Sitting down, I watch my teardrops splash against the grimy floor, leaving their painfully darkened blotches upon the surface.

'Yes, Dad, I know how you must have felt, and how important it is to have that one person in your life that you love so deeply and...'

A creak sounds from the stair above me, followed by a timid voice.

"You okay?"

Turning, I look at him, taking in every aspect of him...his eyes, his hair, his facial expressions, EVERYTHING. Registering and filing everything about him into every corner of my mind so that I will never forget him.

"Yes." Wait a minute, what am I doing? "No, I'm not okay."

"Did you find the box?"

"Yes, I found the box, and that's why I'm crying," I sniffle.

"It's bad to cry."

"Not always. Sometimes people crying is really a sign of their inner strength. It shows that they're not afraid of their emotions...of who they are, and of what makes them be," I explain.

"What?" With a look of confusion, I realize that perhaps I have gone too in-depthly for such a young, inquisitive mind.

"Never mind. I'll explain it to you when you're a little bit older; when you can understand a little bit better. For now, though, just realize that sometimes crying is a good thing. Anyway, what say you and I go on up and make ourselves some lunch before I have to go to work?" I inquire while snatching up a piece of clothing I will be wearing tonight.

"Yeah! Peanut butter and jelly!"

With that, I watch my OWN son, Jonathan Houseman Davis II, bound upstairs...so full of life.

'Well, Dad,' I think as I address my father. 'Tonight's my first show.'

With that said, I, Nathan Davis, fold up my kilt and climb up the basement stairs, prepared for my first moment in the public eye...and the first day of the rest of my life...

'I love you, Dad, and I know I'll make you proud.'