Page 12 of Mind Pucked

“Okay, Daddy. I do myself now.” She lets out a happy squeal as she takes the swing almost as high as it can go.

I take a few steps back and just watch her enjoying herself.

The one thing I’m glad about is how quickly she recovers after the anniversaries. The second anniversary of Lyla’s death was only a month ago. I’ve still been taking it hard. I’ve been having weird dreams about her, and going back to wondering what the hell happened that day when she was in the crash.

It still sticks in my mind, and I wish I had answers. But even our families, when I can find the courage to talk to them about it, tell me that it’s way past time to move on. In more ways than one. It’s not that they don’t miss her, but they just don’t want me to keep dwelling on it like this. It’s not good for us.

Hayden has cried and asked about Lyla a few times. I don’t know if she would even know it was the anniversary of her mom’s death or not if I didn’t say anything. It’s hard to know what the body truly remembers.

I cheer her on as she continues to swing, and then she finally stops pumping her legs, clearly ready to slow down and stop.

I’m right behind her to support her as she gets sick of waiting, and I reach out to stop the swing from swinging.

She hops out and goes over to where the ring toss game sits next to the patio, pulling the colored rings off and passing me half of them.

“You first, Daddy,” she says, gesturing for me to step up in front of her.

I smile, loving how kind she is. But again, that pang hits me. The fact that her mother will never know that she’s this kind. Or this smart. Or this beautiful.

I’m slow about tossing the first ring, showing Hayden again exactly how to throw it to make sure she has a shot. I’ll never get onto her for not making it, but I want her to have the ability.

I just barely miss the back stake, and I act disappointed. Then I back up and point for her to get in front of me and try it.

“Help me?” she asks, turning that sweet little face to me.

I kneel behind her and hold on to her wrist, showing her just how to curve it inward and then flick it out.

Hayden gets a tight grip on the red ring, closes her eyes for a second, real tight as if she’s making a wish, and then lets it go the way I showed her. Sure enough, she makes it onto the first stake.

She jumps up and down, then turns around to give me a hug. “Thank you, Daddy. That was so cool.”

I nod and tickle her underarms a little. “It was pretty cool.”

After she’s tucked in bed, I’m sitting on the couch and nursing a beer, flipping through Netflix to see if there’s anything interesting I haven’t watched yet. And of course, there just isn’t. There never seems to be these days. But then again, this is the time of year when things get quiet. I think too much, and I want a distraction. But there is no such thing. There’s no distraction from the grief and the pain when you lose the person you love the most. Especially when you don’t have answers about why you lost that person.

I’m trying to literally shake the thoughts out of my head when I hear Hayden crying from her room.

I set my beer down and take the stairs two by two. It always worries me, setting my heartbeat racing when she wakes up like this in the night. I don’t know why, but I just have this anxiety, this panic, that something could really be wrong.

That life has come to take yet another thing away from me.

As I make it up the stairs, I see that she’s already wandered out of her room, rubbing her eyes. “Daddy?” she asks, and her voice is husky.

Her eyes are red as she moves her hand away. I reach for her, putting my arms out, and she grabs onto them willingly.

I scoop her up and hold her, allowing her to put her head on my shoulder. “Hey, princess, did you have a bad dream?” I ask her, stroking her hair soothingly.

She shakes her head, and it leaves me feeling confused.

“Then, what’s wrong? How can I help?”

“I think…” she begins, but then she starts sobbing. I give her pressure, squeezing her tight and letting her know I’m here while I bounce her up and down in my arms, pacing back and forth in front of the staircase. It’s all I can do, because when she gets like this, there’s just no soothing her and talking it over until she’s ready. It can be about anything, but I have a bad feeling I know what this is. It’s happened before.

Finally, she whispers in my ear, “I think I had a dream about Mommy. I miss Mommy.”

She doesn’t say it very often. I know she doesn’t remember her face, and I have to show her pictures. And thank goodness I have them. I have them everywhere.

“Oh, but it was a good dream?” I ask her.

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