The Counting-Downers (12 page)

“Why?” I ask when it’s clear she’s waiting for a response to her random confession, and perhaps some encouragement that it’s okay to step outside her comfort zone into the vulnerable unknown.

“Because I didn’t want to wake up in a world without him. I know I’ve been doing that for the past week or so, but something seemed…different about today. This was the final goodbye. He isn’t coming back; and when I wake up tomorrow, it will be the true beginning of my life without him. And I’m not ready. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to wake up to a world that doesn’t have him in it.” Her tearful confession causes fresh tears to spring to my eyes and fall once again.

“Me either. I’ll stay up with you,” I offer. “If you want, we can spend the time talking about Daddy and our favorite memories of him. I’d love to hear more about how you met.” I relish this newfound connection and comfort level between us.

“Are you sure?” Her tone is hesitant, mixed with hope and uncertainty. “I don’t want to keep you up if you’re tired.”

“I’m sure. I want this. And besides, not only am I not tired, but no way will I sleep tonight.”

“Okay then.”

“Yeah?” I look up at her with hope and am struck still by the look of adoration being reflected back at me.

“Yeah,” she says, kissing my forehead and tucking me back under her chin.

So that’s what we do.

We talk. We laugh. We cry. We share. We reminisce. We confess. We cuddle. We connect. Then we cry some more.

Acquaintances become allies. Family become friends.

And as our sobs quiet, and our tears start to dry, the sun begins to rise on the first day of the next chapter of our lives.

IT’S BEEN TWO years, almost to the day, that my father died and my world was forever changed. Nothing is the same, least of all me. I have grown and evolved into many Matildas over my twenty-one years, but becoming ‘Matilda without her dad’ has been the toughest reincarnation yet.

But I’m still breathing. If nothing else, the fact I’m still breathing, is a triumph.

For a while, it was all I was sure of. For a while, it was all anyone could ask of me.

But with painstaking slowness, they were able to ask more of me, and I was able to ask more of myself than just getting out of bed to face a world without my father in it.

As night became day, spring became summer, and nineteen became twenty, I began to smile, to laugh, to dream, to dance, to strive, to
live
.

Truly. Deeply. Freely.

And not just because I thought I should, but because I
wanted
to. For me.

Freedom came in realizing that I will never ‘move on’ from my father because I take him with me wherever I go. I was only able to move forward once I let go of my fear of leaving him behind.

So that’s what I’m doing as I walk barefoot along our favorite beach toward his bench, watching as the crimson sun melts into the sea. I stand and look on in awe at the surreal splendor of this world of ours.

The sight before me is an artist’s dream. I raise my vintage Olympus OM 10 camera from around my neck and do my best to capture the vivid sunset, aware that it’s a pointless pursuit.

The best sights in life are hard to capture—with a pen, a camera, or a mind. They are otherworldly gifts, too beautiful to belong to us for more than a brief glance, too fragile to be contained and kept safe for rainy days. If only we could bottle the magic of soulful sunsets, or grasp the infinite expanse of panoramic views in our hands. Instead, they slip through our senses and memories like sand and sea through fingers.

Yet still we try like children chasing butterflies to hold the intangible beauty in our hands, to keep it captive and treasured in our possession forever. A memory is never as good as a moment. Any photograph I take of this sunset, like my memory of it, will one day deteriorate, having never been as good as the real thing in the first place. The vibrant, effervescent, colors will fade to pastels and white, the crisp edges curled at the corners of my mind.

Still I try. A photograph of this sunset would still make an amazing second-hand memory. For the past year, I’ve been attending California’s prestigious Bilde Art School to help make my dreams of becoming a well-respected photographer a reality. It’s a three-year course and I’m loving it so far.

I’ve learned a lot, the most important of which is that sometimes you need to put down the camera long enough to experience an image with senses other than sight. It sounds a bit ridiculous, as you need your eyes to see an image, but that’s the whole point. Sometimes you need to
feel
instead of see.

My professor, Frieda, came up with a saying that adequate photographers use their sight, good photographers use their senses, and great photographers use their
souls
. She’s trying to take me from a good photographer to a great one. It’s still a work in progress.

But I think that no matter how good I become, or how much success I have, I’ll still always be a work in progress. I hope so. Who wants to reach the stage where you believe you’re
done
? I can’t imagine thinking I know everything there ever is to know about anything.

Learning takes a lifetime and even the geniuses among us die ignorant. You should always want to learn, to grow, to improve. Otherwise, what’s the point? You may as well just give up and die. Life is both a classroom and a teacher. Always new things to see, people to meet, lessons to learn. We’ll always be the students, never the professors.

Despite the stunning sight, the beach is mainly empty. The sunbathers and surfers have long since scattered with the ever-cooling air like students fleeing the classroom at the ringing of the bell, while I stay behind like a teacher’s pet asking for more homework. Their loss is my gain.

While I love Ocean Beach at every time of the day, this is my favorite hour. When the sun is setting, the sand is still, and the only sounds come from the surf. I’m at peace here, something within me settles.

It’s mid-May so the air is warm, but the delicate sea breeze caresses my skin, causing me to tighten my light-wash denim jacket around me, and the stray strands of my hair to waltz in the wind. I’d prefer to be in jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt instead of my white shorts and billowing floral blouse, but it’s not too cold at the moment.

As I see my father’s bench on the horizon, cast in the warm amber glow of the sky, I spot a lone silhouette sitting on it and my heart sinks. Of course, anyone can sit on the bench, but I had hoped to be alone with my dad and my thoughts. It’s the perfect bench in the perfect spot for thinkers and dreamers.

Today I fall into the first category, though I’m also a member of the latter. I hesitate, unsure of whether I should proceed or turn around and walk back to my car to drive home. Maybe this mysterious figure also wants to be alone with their thoughts and would resent the interruption my presence would bring.

Perhaps I’ll just walk up to it. It’s possible that they’ll leave in the time it takes me to reach it and if not, I can keep walking past and make it seem like that was always my intention. Nothing is worse than an interloper in your solitude. As someone who hates her quiet time interrupted, I’d never do it to someone else.

Decision made, I carry on walking along the stretch of sand, enjoying its coarse grains beneath my feet. My mom always says that walks along the beach are nature’s pedicure, which makes me laugh, but there’s truth in it.

A fond smile graces my face at the thought of my mom. Ever since that night on the deck two years ago when our emotional walls crumbled, we’ve become close among the wreckage. Two broken people doing the best they can to put each other back together.

We’re still made up of mismatched and cracked pieces, but a much better understanding exists between us. She allows me to see her imperfect and I allow her to see me afraid.

We now have a bond that doesn’t need my dad for reinforcement. It can survive on its own. It’s another work in progress, but it’s
ours
, and that’s all that matters.

As I near the solitary stranger, I can tell it’s a man from his build. I can’t make out any features due to the position of the light, plus his head is bent, as if looking down at something. I’m a few steps away when his head jerks up, somehow attuned to my presence even though my footsteps are silent in the sand.

He looks straight at me. And I stand still. For a brief moment, I stop breathing.

And then my lungs once again take in salty air as my eyes once again take in the sight of the blond-haired, blue-eyed man, who is currently staring back at me with an expression I’m sure mirrors my own.

I stand and he sits, both of us frozen; strangers reunited under the splendidly setting sun.

“HI.”

“Hey.”

I’m struck by the warm sense of familiarity and recognition I experience upon hearing two of the most common and basic words in the English language. Everything has changed since that day, and yet in this moment, things feel just as they did two years ago. We’re once again just a boy and a girl searching and failing for words and moments that transcend the mundane.

“Long time no see, Goldilocks.”

His shocked face spreads into a glorious, dimpled smile at my nickname from that day gone by. He looks the same but different. A light dusting of blond stubble on his jaw that wasn’t there before, a confidence and presence in his posture which hadn’t existed, muscles defined where once they were only toned, and a subtle sadness behind his vivid blue eyes I don’t remember seeing two years ago. His ear-length blond waves are buried underneath a brown beanie hat, and he’s more appropriately dressed than me in a mossy green cable knit sweater and light blue jeans.