Maybe it's for the better

Maybe it’s for the better

It's easy to lose count of the days in a place like this, especially when you've been stuck here for so many months.

And yet a good father always remembers the special days and I'm a good father... Am I not? 

Today is your eighth birthday, Henry, and I’m missing it.
Just like I missed your seventh one and I’ll probably miss your ninth one, too and so on.
Not because I don’t want to be with you, of course, only because I can’t.
Courtesy of your fucking step-mother, along with other gentle ladies who helped: Marienne, Nadia, Maddie, the list is pretty long.
And, in an indirect way, even R.I.P. Beck and her goddamn book who turned my sweet Bronte against me.
The beginning of my end.
But the fact remains that I’m stuck here for god only knows how long.

There must be a reason if they call it ‘life sentence’ and I got more than one.

I find some kind of solace recalling your sixth birthday, back to when my life was perfect.
With a -pretty profitable, with all those privileges and the power - wife, deeply in love with me.
But mostly with you, my precious Henry, 24/7.
I still remember how you grinned when you opened the box, getting the remote control robot you wished for so long.
Kate was against that, saying that I was spoiling you too much… That bitch!
I still remember how you enjoyed that spaceship triple chocolate cake that came directly from the best Parisian Patisserie.
Deep inside, I know you enjoyed the dinosaur cake - very less tridimensional - more, something I’ve made for you on my own for your fourth birthday.
What kind of cake will you get this year? What about the one from the year before?
And the gifts? Will you like them? Does anyone know you better than me? I don’t think so.

I still recall your fave stories that you wanted me to read before sleeping, not to mention the ones you wanted me to make up.

I still recall you and me playing whatever funny battle your vivid fantasy suggested to you.

I still recall how proud you were when you ran to me to present the lesson you had studied so well, not to mention when it was about poetry or a book.
I know for sure that I taught you something good.

It’s been almost two years since I saw your face one last time, since I heard your voice… no matter if you killed me with your words.
And you were so right.
I was the monster under the bed.

But something deep inside tells me that you must miss me, at least a tiny bit, that you would like to see me again.
If only…
And the bitch didn’t even bother to send me at least some pics of you, I can fucking receive mail here.

I spend most of the days wondering how many inches you’re taller now, if your voice starts to sound more like a boy and less like a child, if you still get good grades at schools, if there are some bullies pestering you, if you have some new hobbies, if you play some sport, if you have new friends, maybe you have a little girlfriend… I could have taught you how to keep a good eye on her…

Previously mentioning poetry, I cast back to the day when I was still barely a teenager and I had found in the cage the original first edition of an Italian Poet, Giosuè Carducci, called ‘New Rhymes’ … So dusty, so fragile, so alluring. It was so full of poetry and I wanted to know what they meant, so I looked for an English-Italian dictionary and started translating them… when Mr Mooney caught me, I was so sure it would get mad at me, maybe because I could risk wrinkling the pages… Instead he just smiled at me; not that Mr. Mooney smiled so often.

Then I reached a poem called ‘Ancient Lament’.

Back to those days, thirteen years old! Joe found it boring and unappealing, but oooohh, present! Joe begs to differ.

That heart-breaking poem talks about the most painful loss ever: a son. At a very young age.

And since there’s no chance I can meet you, see you, talk with you or even hear about you ever again, it feels like you’re dead to me.
And it kills me inside each day that goes by.

I also spend most of the days wondering; could I have prevented that? Could I have seen in time the signs of the incoming bane of my existence?

I should have known better, I should have taken you and Louise when she still was my lovely Bronte, and ran away, hiding from my enemies, starting a new life.
So maybe she wouldn’t have focused on that fucking book, noticing things she shouldn’t have ever noticed.
And you, Henry, you would have been with me, I would have watched over you, protected you, we could have had so many special moments together.
Father and son.
The most rewarding of the bonds.

And yet something tells me it wouldn’t be so good.

‘The tree you used to reach

your infant's hand out to’

All of the sudden I’m that tree, you trust in climbing upon me, but you can’t know how slippery I am and you fall from it.
A very bad fall.

And I wouldn’t ever want that for you.

This bitter awareness is welcomed by my tears.
I would be a bad influence for you, Henry.
I would taint your innocence.
And I could never ever forgive myself for that.

Stay pure, Henry.
Stay carefree.
Stay happy, or at least the least sad possible.
Stay away from me, Henry.
Maybe it’s for the better.

But, please, rest assured that your dad loves you so much, even if you probably now hate him.

--

THE END