She curled up to him like a cannonball.

Some days during our hideaway I just wouldn’t stop talking. I would make up stories, I would quote movies that didn’t even exist. I wouldn’t stop following him around, singing Neil Young Tunes right into his ear. Just until he would finally nudge my head with his, push me off of him and tell me to “Go’on now”. There was a southern drawl to it although he had lived in California almost all his life. I never told him all I wanted was this little Southern expression whispered to me in his distinctive voice. To me this was the most loving and heartfelt gesture I could ever imagine. And judging by the time it took him to give in, all I did, to get him to this point, was everything he ever imagined it to be as well.

But the thing was that she felt scared looking into his eyes. There was so much hope, so much finesse and madness and honesty that she easily felt intimidated by the thought of never being enough standing in the light of his sight. Often she would say she could see lines being drawn behind his vibrant blue pupils. She could see worlds emerging from just clusters of an idea. Forming up to be a sky and the ground and the woods and the sea and a thousand faces and scenario after scenario reflecting the whole pallet of human mirth or tragedy. His voice revealed skeletal efforts to bind those worlds together, with words as cutting as a poets ache. His tongue speaking but hardly living up to what his eyes told her with just the littlest movement of his lids. He was shielding the sun, he was hiding from the rain. It didn’t matter because the worlds never disappeared. And if she was just trying hard enough she knew she would one day be able to vanish in them and play part in his sublime master plan of making reality go away.

Emmi always cried before 7 on Sunday Mornings. Her Dad hardly got alarmed anymore, he was simply used to it by now. While his daughter could easily sleep ‘til noon on all the other days during the week, for some reason on Sunday Morning she never failed to stand by her bedroom window, peeking out, silently crying with the LA Times cramped underneath her arm. He was never sure where Emmi got the Newspaper from. He wasn’t a reader, not much anyway, certainly not a reader of the Times Weekend issue and most certainly not that early on the resting day of the week. Although he made sure she never noticed he made it his routine to be up as well and sit in the hallway next to her door and wait for her to stop sobbing. Surely, he was worried, terribly concerned, yet he could never bring himself to ask her. Ever since Emmis Mother had died he shied away from things that could either upset or sadden her. Take things that would scare her or bother her on a more superficial level, he was there, right away. He was a good Father, he just couldn’t see her cry. And that he knew would happen if he ever approached her with that topic. Later they would sit down in the kitchen, enjoy breakfast together, sharing a laugh. He was not born into it, but he certainly could conjure up some good old fashioned American Pancakes by now. He learned by doing and his daughter gave him all the support and valuation he craved so much being an insecure single-parent.
“Your almond chocolate milk is the best Daddy.” She would beam and unleash a million chocolaty smoochies on his cheek. Her breath smelled of the nutty syrup and her words were sweeter than anything he could imagine. She so often seemed like a normal kid, absolutely carefree, like a kid that didn’t loose her Mom to Pills and negligence. Except for today. Now, he was used to the crying in her bedroom, but he wasn’t familiar with this awkward silence at the breakfast table this morning.
“What’s happening, sugarbump? The Pancakes no good?”
Emmi shook her head. Whatever he did that morning he hardly could make her look up at him, let alone speak. Was that a ‘No, they’re good. Or a no, they’re shit?’ he pondered, stroking her hair, worried sickly. He knew it was something else altogether. And he also knew that it was time to confront her. Emmi poked around on her plate, mashing up the pancake batter with the blueberry syrup and the butter on top. Her dish was a mess he noticed but quickly pushed the silly thought of admonition aside. Carefully he removed the fork, took both her hands inside his and kissed the top of her head.
“What’s the matter, honey?”
It was then that she looked at him, glistening tears veiling her sharp blue eyes she had inherited from his side of the Family.
“Seth was 59. And MaryAnn was 47. Jules was 77 but Craig was only 53.” She cried out, lunging into his arms, hugging him so tight he could feel her tears wetting his white shirt. She could have spoken a different language and he wouldn’t have been more confused by her words.
“They’re so young. And nobody is doing anything. And you’re 48. And I can’t do anything.” Emmis body rocked against his shoulders and he was too afraid to move, too scared to change the position so she didn’t have any space that could make her feel left behind. It started to dawn on him, it started to make sense. All of it. The LA Times, the crying, all her affection especially on Sundays.
“Come on now.” He whispered in her ear as he picked her up and carried her up the stairs to her bedroom. The Lullaby he now hushed out used to calm her down when she was little and he was surprised to realize it still had the same effect. Her crying stopped but she still held on to him so tightly it felt like she would crush his bones.
“Alright now, I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here sweetheart.”
He gave her all the time in the world, the LA Times opened to the obituaries lying between them on her large bed. She would tip on some of them after minutes passing and look at him almost reproachfully.
“They just go. They have daughters too and they just leave.”
He nodded and watched her tap the next obituary.
“James died two days ago on his 49th Birthday. I don’t know how…I mean, it doesn’t say how, …but…”
“Have you been reading those every Sunday?”
He was certain, if at all, other kids would have at this point fetched out some kind of notes or memos but Emmi just lay there next to him, recalling everything from Memory.
“Statistically the average age of death is around 76 for Males in the US, I checked in the Library, but it just seems so much younger when I read those. Marten five weeks ago was 37, Frances eight weeks ago 51. There was one three weeks ago, of James who died at 102. All his grandchildren wrote poems and drew stuff. I did like this one a lot. It was pretty. But this Sunday,… there was only one elderly woman, all the others were so young.” Her voice faded in the end and she helplessly looked at her Father for some sort of relief, some sort of reassurance he knew only he could give her.
“I’m not gonna leave you. This is not gonna happen twice. I won’t ever leave you.” He told her, moving her over into his arms, pushing the newspaper aside.
If it could help her, he thought, he would make it a habit to read those sometimes gruesome, sometimes beautifully written death notes together from now on.
“Emmi, where do you get the paper from anyway?”
“You never heard me?” she asked him, pressing her forehead against his neck. She felt him shaking his head which made her grin involuntarily.
“Has Mister Hudson from next door never complained to you about his missing weekend issue?”
He laughed loudly, burying her even deeper in his arms.
“Let’s go sneak out together from now. Let’s get in Trouble every Sunday.” He said, never letting go of her.

1969. Leon rambled on as if I had no say. He took me bear hunting. He took me far away. Leon had a camera and sometimes he drank almond tea when he felt sad. He had a pretty face when he got lost. He got lost a lot. He loved telling stories. Like the one where we got abducted, and there was a ransom note. Nobody would pay for a sloth and his girl he told me back then. And I wasn’t afraid. He enclosed my head between his soft hands, kissed my worries goodbye. Leon collected hearts I told all my friends when I read them my ‘Handbook of terribly and awfully crushing heart collectors and how to never fall in love with them’. There wasn’t enough time, after the first paragraph I wrote, I fell in love with Leon. I fell in love when he explained the first illustration for my book that he had come up with. He was an artist, much more he was a mannequin of oddities. He studied pictures of beautifully disturbed, romantically dark scenes of death and destruction. His sunshine smile never leaving his flawless face. Those were the contradictions I allowed between my thighs, that made me never doubt the pleasure and the passion. He liked to race his Chevy on Sunset. And to this day I can still see his beaming grin when we watched my hat lift off one summer night, flying up in the air, crashing down on the street. The last memory just a whirlwind, like a tumbleweed in the rear view mirror as he sped off. Leon taught me how to dance. He showed me how to dance in circles and depart from all that felt common to us. At what cost he would ask, at what cost could anybody make you leave me, am I the one worth leaving? 1969. I closed my eyes when his arms pulled me in. I sobbed and I laughed. I handled the love, handled the pain. But couldn’t shake the fear. He listened to me when I told him he can never die. And just then, his heart told me that Hope. Exceeds.

You came here and it was a moment of darkness and despair. And it seemed that you picked me right up, swiveled me around and just refused to ever let me go, ever. You held on, and you enclosed me and decided you’d become my haven. For the first time ever, suddenly and for good.

There was a delicateness to his skin you would never expect when you see him cheekily flash one of his typical smiles, revealing years of successful making women fall head over heels for him. We danced this slow dance for a while now, moving to the classic cheesy Love Song that probably made the youth of the 60s get off their asses in a heartbeat. He held me tight in his arms, lovingly almost innocently directing my confused body with his hand on the small of my back. His smooth voice silently purring into my ear, skilfully leading me through this very unfamiliar situation. I don’t know why I agreed to go on this dance with him, especially considering that all the attention was usually his, everywhere from anyone as soon as he was present, directly resulting that it wasn’t mine any less. “Why am I doing this again?” I asked him, feeling all those strangers eyes pinned on our awkward movements. Not to be mistaken, he was a good dancer, very old school, very secure. I was the mess. “Because you can’t stay away from me.” he smirked against my temple. His obvious joke felt awfully revealing and true to me, enough to make me feel pathetically caught. “Cocky bastard.” no smile, no laugh, I just let my forehead rest, nested in this perfectly safe spot between his chin and collarbone. Contradictions. Never admitting how you feel while showing exactly that, having your lips pressed to his neck, sure of nothing but this moment. Contradictions, making a silly joke just to cover up the transparency of feelings that he had just stumbled upon. This was a very descriptive moment of everything that was us. There was always intimacy, always trust but also always a sort of mutual and fond teasing. Still, we were very true and I was very much in love with everything he made me feel. I even accepted the sadness that washed over me every once in a while when I looked at him just long enough to make out the wrinkles and age marks on his skin. It’s funny but having grown up watching him star in all those classic 80s flicks there just was a certain picture that got established inside of your heart. And when you love someone you tend to not see changes, you certainly don’t see the aging process although it’s right there, in front of you. Mortality scared the shit out of me. In this particular case however the thing that scared me even more was the simple thought of existing in a world that had no him. I know I was selfish for these thoughts. Even more so, nobody said I would outlive him, nobody could predict any of these things. Being 35 years younger didn’t mean nothing in this world. He was healthy, he was very happy, was satisfied. Still, I made too much noise in my head about this, and there was always this little glimmer of worry that traveled hand in hand with all the joy and happiness I felt whenever I was around him. I noticed his wife watching us, following our twirls with a spark in her eyes. She was so beautiful it almost made me cry. “How can you stand dancing with me when your wife captures the whole room?” He laughed. His laugh. So distinct, so familiar. “Because she is my girl, and she wants me to show my creative conspirator some moves from the old days.” “How am I doing?” I asked, serious. “Lousy.” he said, just as serious, giving my head a quick peck just as the last tone of the song sounded. I nodded with an amused frown, playfully sending him off, into the arms of his woman in which he just seemed to fit right in. They were married for more than 30 years and it didn’t even show, they were still so much in love. I kept my eyes on them for quite a bit, charmed by the way their bodies interacted with one another, like it was scripted, like there was nothing else. I know I was already stored somewhere in their memory, the way the world was supposed to rotate for them, and for me as well.

The muscles in his arm tensed up just so much as it took me to feel the familiar stream of pure happiness and comfort in every corner of my soul. After countless days on the Road, wearily forcing myself to see the world I finally came crawling back to my safety zone. Back here the salty air smelled the same, the pacific looked just as turquoise as I remembered it. He felt just the same as well. Standing behind me, embracing me with just one arm, kissing my cheek. His beard tickling, his gray hair covering my bare shoulder. The usual sounds in the House of his wife singing while making the dishes, the dogs barking, the phone ringing filled my eyes with tears. His voice did too. His still childish, grumpy, artists’ voice that carried so much Love for his once-lost-but-found-by-him-daughter. “We will always be Your Home” he told me the day I left them for adventure and uncertainty, knowing in my Heart I could never stay away long enough to convince everybody I was leading an independent, stable life. And how was I ever supposed to convince anyone including myself when all I could ever see was a deeply felt worry in his eyes whenever I pulled up in their driveway? As much as he tries to hide it, as much as he tries to be low-key about it, I know he still quickly gives me this once-over as soon as I step in sight as if I could break apart again any second. “I missed this.” I said, swaying with him hanging on to me, overlooking the beach and the scary looking freight-boats out on the pacific ‘direction unknown’. We often stood like this after he found me in a side-alley somewhere in the dark corners of Downtown Los Angeles, frantically trying to hurt my body with everything I could grab that Night. We never openly talked about it being a suicide attempt; in fact we never again talked about the Night as a whole. He basically pulled me out of the dirt, seated me in his big, expensive car, drove me out to his big, expensive Malibu Home. Adopting me unofficially, officially though, loving me just as much as his very own. No questions asked, no explanations needed.

“She often wished she was fatally sick. That was one thing about her depression. While she perfectly knew how selfish she was and how lucky she should be that her body was physically fine she also knew that the damage inside sucked out every spark she was trying to awake. ‘But being really, really sick’ she said ‘would be just a way of justifying my ever so paralyzed body lying in bed, unable to feel anything but the minutes ticking away.’ It’s what she did. Staying in bed, day in day out. Her blank stare was usually fixed to something that late at night she couldn’t even recall. All the music she heard was just drums and beats and strings and voices and nothing. She couldn’t bind them together, couldn’t feel rhythm or melody. It seemed like her face had lost all its ability to show signs of emotions that might have been left. You couldn’t even say she looked sad. She was transparent to most anyway, but being this mess she just seemed to disappear completely.”