Somehow Everything's Gonna Fall Right Into Place, If We Only Had A Way To Make It All Fall Faster Everyday, If Only Time Flew Like A Dove
--"Hallelujah", Paramore
Little Anne,
I suppose I can't call you that anymore, can I? God, what do I call you? Is it still Anne or are you going by Annie these days? It's been so long--almost ten years. I'm guessing you don't even remember me. Back when you were young you used to call me Uncle Cal. I'm sure you don't remember that either. It really has been a long time.
How are you doing? What are you like now? The little girl I remember was barely talking, a silly little thing in pigtails that her mother insisted she wear. The little girl I remember had only barely begun to dream when I decided to stop visiting. I'm trying to imagine how you've grown up, what kind of person you've developed into. It's like the game people play in the movies. One afternoon I'll be picturing you as Anne the Acrobat in some traveling circus. A month later I'll be thinking about you as Anne the Safari Hunter. Just today I was commenting to your mother how you could someday become Anne the Astronaut. Do kids even dream of becoming an astronaut still? All I know is, I never even got to know what you were dreaming about being so I have no idea where your head's at right now. I'm hoping you're a good student because that's very important. I'm also hoping that you're somewhat popular because, again, I know what it's like when you're not so popular. I know you've already had a hard life and I'd hate to think of it being any harder than it has to be.
I'm sure you're wondering by now who I am. Well, it's kind of why I'm writing you this letter. I would've explained all of this to you in person, but your mother was saying this probably would be a better tact. I don't want to scare you. I want it to be your decision whether or not getting to know me is something you want for yourself.
I was a friend of your father. He was my coach at Tropavista, where I used to play minor league ball for a time. I'm proud to say I got to know him very well during my few months there and I'm proud to say he was one of the finest examples of a human being I have ever met. I'm not sure what kind of father he was to your sisters and what kind of husband he was to your mother, but I know what kind of role model he was for me. Something tells me that he was the same way at home with his girls.
I'm writing this letter to you because your mother called me the other day and told me it was time you learned something about your father, something about the way he died.
This is the hardest letter I've ever had to write someone.
I think you're old enough to hear it, though. You see, back in 2007, Tropavista was playing our out-of-state rivals from Tremere. I remember it was a close game--seven to six. Everybody was tense. Everybody was on the edge of their seats, including your mom and your two older sisters. It was the bottom of the seventh and I was up to bat. I admit, I was a stupid kid--barely nineteen and cocky as all hell. I think that's what your father was trying to instill in me the most, how not to be so flashy, so reckless. But I still was every bit the blowhard. I remember stepping up to the plate, noticing your father out of the corner of my eye at the first base coaching box. He was rolling in his eyes like he always did when I came to the plate. I don't think he meant any disrespect. I think it was his way of keeping me in my place, of making sure I never knew how much he thought of me as a person or my talent.
I remember taking that first pitch, trying to get a sense of what kind of stuff the reliever who had just entered had. I remember taking that first pitch and realizing I could break this guy. I could take the ball all the way out. So on that next pitch, against my manager's advice, I swung for the fences. But I was early on the pitch and lined it foul towards first base.
Right towards your father.
I was already preparing for my next swing, figuring he had ducked out of the way, by the time I heard the crowd react. That's when I saw your father flat on the ground, unable to get up. I dropped the bat and ran immediately over to him. Even then I didn't believe it was serious. I kept picturing in my head he would wake up with one hell of a lump and have one hell of a screaming session at me. I kept picturing myself having to pick up trash in the stands, do his laundry, or some other demeaning punishment as payback for striking your father. As I got closer, those images began to fade faster and faster every second. He wasn't getting up. More importantly, he didn't look so good. The ball had struck him square on the forehead. He didn't even have time to cover up or duck or anything. It had been a quick one-two action.
There isn't a day that doesn't go by that I don't see the image of how he looked on that field on that day. Nor can I ever forget the image of him being carried away to the ambulance. They stopped the game that day--the first time in almost eighty years a game had been called. Nobody could keep their mind on the game. I sure as hell couldn't.
And then--God, that was the worst part--seeing your mother's face, your sisters' faces, as they ran up to your father and as they tried to get to the car to follow your father to the hospital. That was excruciating to watch too.
Because I knew. I knew all of it was my fault. People can say that it was an accident and that I shouldn't have blamed myself, but the truth is how could I just shrug something like that off so easily. Maybe I hadn't intended to kill him, but kill him I did all the same. I was responsible. I'm still responsible. And I'll keep on being responsible for all of it until the day I die. That kind of thing doesn't go away. It never goes away.
Your father stopped breathing before the ambulance ever made it to the hospital.
He never got to see so many things because of me.
He never got to see your sisters both graduate from high school and college.
He never got to see your mother finally start that restaurant she'd always imagined your father and her opening.
He never got to see you born... or grow up.
That's why I'm writing you this letter, to make you understand how sorry I am and how I owe it to you to make sure your life is as smooth as possible. I know I can never replace your father. No one can. His loss was devastating to me. I personally had deprived his loved ones of the greatest source of joy they have ever known. I had done that in a matter of seconds. I had killed somebody. I can't get your father back for you, but I can give you as much support monetarily, time-wise, or anything else I have the power to give you from here on out. I try to send your mother as much money as I can. Sometimes she sends it back. But whenever there is anything you girls need or something I hear you're struggling with, I try to right by you.
I think I'm being selfish, though. I'm trying to fix this so I don't feel so horrible all the time. This guilt, it eats away at me on a daily basis and the only way I push it away is when I think of something else I can do for your family. Bit by bit, I'm trying to make everything fall into place for all of you. I'm trying to make your life as uncomplicated as possible. I want all of you to grow up like your father never died, like he had been here to see all of you succeed. It's difficult. Sometimes I think I'm not doing enough. Sometimes your mother thinks I'm doing too much. It's hard to find that balance that will make everything better. So far, I think I've figured out a place where your mother and your sisters are comfortable when it comes to my gifts.
But your mother and I thought it was time you had a say. It's high time you let me know what I can do for you that you'd be comfortable with. Please, be frank. I want you to take my help because it'll ease my mind knowing you're being taken care of. Let me do whatever it is you need doing for you.
I took something away that I can never get back for you, Anne... little Anne. And I'll spend the rest of my life making sure you never lack for anything else if I can help it.
Also, I'd like to see you. Your mother says you've been asking questions about what your father was like and she thought it might be nice if you could ask me questions. If you're feeling up to it, I have this whole weekend off to ask me whatever you want. I know it's going to be hard. I know you might be a little angry or hurt or shocked or whatever, knowing what you know now, but I'd like to do this for you I can. I'd like to help you get to know your father like I knew him.
Please call me. Anytime. For anything.
I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry about everything. I don't know what else to say.
Uncle Cal
Yours Swimingly,
mojo shivers
Little Anne,I suppose I can't call you that anymore, can I? God, what do I call you? Is it still Anne or are you going by Annie these days? It's been so long--almost ten years. I'm guessing you don't even remember me. Back when you were young you used to call me Uncle Cal. I'm sure you don't remember that either. It really has been a long time.
How are you doing? What are you like now? The little girl I remember was barely talking, a silly little thing in pigtails that her mother insisted she wear. The little girl I remember had only barely begun to dream when I decided to stop visiting. I'm trying to imagine how you've grown up, what kind of person you've developed into. It's like the game people play in the movies. One afternoon I'll be picturing you as Anne the Acrobat in some traveling circus. A month later I'll be thinking about you as Anne the Safari Hunter. Just today I was commenting to your mother how you could someday become Anne the Astronaut. Do kids even dream of becoming an astronaut still? All I know is, I never even got to know what you were dreaming about being so I have no idea where your head's at right now. I'm hoping you're a good student because that's very important. I'm also hoping that you're somewhat popular because, again, I know what it's like when you're not so popular. I know you've already had a hard life and I'd hate to think of it being any harder than it has to be.
I'm sure you're wondering by now who I am. Well, it's kind of why I'm writing you this letter. I would've explained all of this to you in person, but your mother was saying this probably would be a better tact. I don't want to scare you. I want it to be your decision whether or not getting to know me is something you want for yourself.
I was a friend of your father. He was my coach at Tropavista, where I used to play minor league ball for a time. I'm proud to say I got to know him very well during my few months there and I'm proud to say he was one of the finest examples of a human being I have ever met. I'm not sure what kind of father he was to your sisters and what kind of husband he was to your mother, but I know what kind of role model he was for me. Something tells me that he was the same way at home with his girls.
I'm writing this letter to you because your mother called me the other day and told me it was time you learned something about your father, something about the way he died.
This is the hardest letter I've ever had to write someone.
I think you're old enough to hear it, though. You see, back in 2007, Tropavista was playing our out-of-state rivals from Tremere. I remember it was a close game--seven to six. Everybody was tense. Everybody was on the edge of their seats, including your mom and your two older sisters. It was the bottom of the seventh and I was up to bat. I admit, I was a stupid kid--barely nineteen and cocky as all hell. I think that's what your father was trying to instill in me the most, how not to be so flashy, so reckless. But I still was every bit the blowhard. I remember stepping up to the plate, noticing your father out of the corner of my eye at the first base coaching box. He was rolling in his eyes like he always did when I came to the plate. I don't think he meant any disrespect. I think it was his way of keeping me in my place, of making sure I never knew how much he thought of me as a person or my talent.
I remember taking that first pitch, trying to get a sense of what kind of stuff the reliever who had just entered had. I remember taking that first pitch and realizing I could break this guy. I could take the ball all the way out. So on that next pitch, against my manager's advice, I swung for the fences. But I was early on the pitch and lined it foul towards first base.
Right towards your father.
I was already preparing for my next swing, figuring he had ducked out of the way, by the time I heard the crowd react. That's when I saw your father flat on the ground, unable to get up. I dropped the bat and ran immediately over to him. Even then I didn't believe it was serious. I kept picturing in my head he would wake up with one hell of a lump and have one hell of a screaming session at me. I kept picturing myself having to pick up trash in the stands, do his laundry, or some other demeaning punishment as payback for striking your father. As I got closer, those images began to fade faster and faster every second. He wasn't getting up. More importantly, he didn't look so good. The ball had struck him square on the forehead. He didn't even have time to cover up or duck or anything. It had been a quick one-two action.
There isn't a day that doesn't go by that I don't see the image of how he looked on that field on that day. Nor can I ever forget the image of him being carried away to the ambulance. They stopped the game that day--the first time in almost eighty years a game had been called. Nobody could keep their mind on the game. I sure as hell couldn't.
And then--God, that was the worst part--seeing your mother's face, your sisters' faces, as they ran up to your father and as they tried to get to the car to follow your father to the hospital. That was excruciating to watch too.
Because I knew. I knew all of it was my fault. People can say that it was an accident and that I shouldn't have blamed myself, but the truth is how could I just shrug something like that off so easily. Maybe I hadn't intended to kill him, but kill him I did all the same. I was responsible. I'm still responsible. And I'll keep on being responsible for all of it until the day I die. That kind of thing doesn't go away. It never goes away.
Your father stopped breathing before the ambulance ever made it to the hospital.
He never got to see so many things because of me.
He never got to see your sisters both graduate from high school and college.
He never got to see your mother finally start that restaurant she'd always imagined your father and her opening.
He never got to see you born... or grow up.
That's why I'm writing you this letter, to make you understand how sorry I am and how I owe it to you to make sure your life is as smooth as possible. I know I can never replace your father. No one can. His loss was devastating to me. I personally had deprived his loved ones of the greatest source of joy they have ever known. I had done that in a matter of seconds. I had killed somebody. I can't get your father back for you, but I can give you as much support monetarily, time-wise, or anything else I have the power to give you from here on out. I try to send your mother as much money as I can. Sometimes she sends it back. But whenever there is anything you girls need or something I hear you're struggling with, I try to right by you.
I think I'm being selfish, though. I'm trying to fix this so I don't feel so horrible all the time. This guilt, it eats away at me on a daily basis and the only way I push it away is when I think of something else I can do for your family. Bit by bit, I'm trying to make everything fall into place for all of you. I'm trying to make your life as uncomplicated as possible. I want all of you to grow up like your father never died, like he had been here to see all of you succeed. It's difficult. Sometimes I think I'm not doing enough. Sometimes your mother thinks I'm doing too much. It's hard to find that balance that will make everything better. So far, I think I've figured out a place where your mother and your sisters are comfortable when it comes to my gifts.
But your mother and I thought it was time you had a say. It's high time you let me know what I can do for you that you'd be comfortable with. Please, be frank. I want you to take my help because it'll ease my mind knowing you're being taken care of. Let me do whatever it is you need doing for you.
I took something away that I can never get back for you, Anne... little Anne. And I'll spend the rest of my life making sure you never lack for anything else if I can help it.
Also, I'd like to see you. Your mother says you've been asking questions about what your father was like and she thought it might be nice if you could ask me questions. If you're feeling up to it, I have this whole weekend off to ask me whatever you want. I know it's going to be hard. I know you might be a little angry or hurt or shocked or whatever, knowing what you know now, but I'd like to do this for you I can. I'd like to help you get to know your father like I knew him.
Please call me. Anytime. For anything.
I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry about everything. I don't know what else to say.
Uncle Cal
Yours Swimingly,
mojo shivers
Labels: consequences, fiction, life and death, Responsibility
posted by mojo shivers @ 12:21 AM
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