To My Eldest Son:
You weren't the only reason I had to get sober. It's important that you know that. Besides; you had gone. You had decided that you didn't want to be my son, and I know you. I know you are not a man to change his mind. I knew it then, when you were barely a man.
Is that why you left? Was I in the way? Could you have become a man, an adult in my house? Had I rendered it impossible for you to ever be anything more than a scared child, an angry teenager, a damaged and resentful adult? Did you leaving even change any of that? Maybe I will never know. Maybe my questions will never be answered and maybe it will be just another thing that I don't deserve, that I have no right to expect or even hope for out of this life that I have so efficiently ruined. It has been nearly five years and I am on my way to see you now. I read in the paper about the accident, about the way you drove your motorcycle into the path of that Honda, nearly graceful for less than a moment before hitting the ground. I read about the woman, the would-be victim who owes you her life.
Is it really you? Do things like this really happen? A beautiful woman about to cross the street, not paying attention, and there you were, willingly absorbing the shock, the impact that was meant for her , that was due to her for her carelessness with her own life. The newspaper wouldn't report on the details of your injuries but they said you were stable, that it was never critical. Just serious. Serious but stable. Those were the exact words if I remember correctly. And I do. I have the article in my wallet and I started making arrangements as soon as I read it, thinking of ways to get out without alarming anyone, without raising any suspicion, and I called your uncle Ed to involve him in my plan (to lie to your mother or your grandfather, whichever made itself necessary first). Overall they are not worried about my travel arrangements to go visit Ed and Marla in San Antonio. Someone has to stay and run the hotel and I haven't seen Ed in years. I've already told your mother that Ed is having a "tough time" (the same kind of "tough time" that describes about twenty years of my life) and she didn't ask questions. Your grandfather wrote Ed off years ago, after he divorced Carol Anne, you remember? Marla was only nineteen then, selling Italian Ice on the sidewalk. Ed said he had never lived before laying eyes on her.
I will be flying to San Antonio and then driving to you. I will do what I can for you, son of mine, in your time of need.
There's also something you should probably know. Obviously I don't drink anymore. Or at least, I don't have a problem anymore. Yes, I was the recipient of a miracle, a gift. I am a saint amongst recovered alcoholics in this town. A prophet. A vessel. Most drunks consider themselves "recovered" when they can resist a drink and it doesn't tear apart their insides, the very fabric of their minds. What about me? I have transcended such miserable feats of self-control. Or the Lord has. I can accomplish much more than the mere feat of resistance.
You know why most born-agains don't drink? Because they see alcohol as an evil thing. They see it as a sin and even if they look more closely the only underlying evil is Satan. Well I say that's horse shit. Yes, the Devil exists. Yes, he used to rent a cozy little room inside of me. But you can't kill Satan. You can't remove him like a tumor. He is inside all of us. He lives in ever beating heart. It's how he works. It's the buttons he chooses to push, that's the key. it's the durability of the vessel, the integrity of the structure, that makes all the difference.
I became a sober man on October 17, 1999. Two years after you disappeared. Hell, I had gone into treatment and come out twice since you'd gone, and half a dozen times before that, you remember. But it wasn't until the accident with your brother that I really decided to get clean and sober. You don't know about that. I wasn't even drunk at the time, thank God. Anyhow, one year and ninety days of treatment later, I could look at a bottle of whiskey and keep from drooling. I wasn't willing to test myself until then, until I really started feeling the weight of the Lord on my shoulders, after I started to really see the Big Picture. I was to ensure a place at God's right hand. I had to be more than just sober. I had be transcendent. And wouldn't you know it, I can have a glass of wine at dinner. I can have one drink and I don't have to worry about sweating bullets.
Don't get me wrong. The voice is still there. The deep, growly voice of sin, of temptation; louder when shit is hitting the fan, when your mom is off her medication, when your brother is kicked out of another school, when guests are few and money's not coming in. I am, as all believers are, a work in progress. But those are the moments when prayer is so important. And so I fall on my knees and close my eyes and seek communion with the Lord and son, let me tell you. The drink He gives me in those moments, the water of Heaven that pours into me, it's so sweet, so cleansing that in those moments I am transcendent. I am filled with something that cannot be described. In those moments, I laugh in the face of Jack Daniels.
I hope this is the man you see. I hope this is the man that walks into the hospital where you lay recovering, the man who has brought his paltry gift of coin (hospital bills should be no concern to the young, it's the least I can do, really). I hope this is the man you see when you open your eyes, after the initial surprise, even shock wears off, after you recognize me and say to me whatever you feel is right after all this time. I will take whatever vitriol you have to give and I will take it gladly. Because I am now, in a way I never was, your father. The man you knew before is dead and he never was your father. Not really. I hope you will see that.
Now you are sleeping and I am glad of it; it gives my blood time to calm. You are more than I was expecting even in your condition, even bruised and bandaged and slung every which way. Even in your drug-induced sleep you are the man I always imagined you would be and more. Maybe because of your injuries. Maybe because I know what populates your dreams and what from childhood is gone from them. I know you dream of fearsome things that do not exist in form in daylight. I know you dream of me and you always have. I know you will wake up and maybe fail to recognize me, you will squint and frown, displeased, and with disdain your heart could not possibly have contained when you were a child, you will ask me what the hell I am doing here.
I pray you will not ask me to leave. And if you do, I pray I will have the strength to refuse. I have come here for absolution and I will not leave without it.
No comments:
Post a Comment