Essay About Little Girls And Section Of The World

Atlantic Case
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Before my father lost his mind I loved him. I remember his arms. Biceps that curled like Zeus fixing lightning bolts to a big world that little girls often get lost in. So, look closely. If you look closely enough, he had angels tap dancing between the creases in his fingers, and ballerinas leaping across the desert in his palms and hair that sometimes doubled as a wind compass with an orchestra in his throat that Beethovend on his lips, I swear. I thought my father was god. But memory tells me that one day when I was young, and my family was on vacation, my father and I decided to walk against the shore of the Atlantic ocean. So he held my hand. And stood five feet above me like a man single-handily beating up all the sea monsters that lurked in the dark waters before they ever got a chance to bite his little girl with long hair and little toes. We made our footprints on the wet part of sand. That section of the world where every movement, and every mark, and every memory, gets erased by the restlessness of the waves. I remember that day I told my father that SOMETIMES I get afraid of the dark. He looked down at his feet gripped my hand a little tighter, and said “Whenever you get afraid, whenever you get afraid, stare at the moon. Know that God is sitting behind it, protecting you, and that when you were born, he matched you with one of his angels and she has wings, and that is your guardian. If anything ever happens to you, she will fly back to god, tell him that and all the other angels, that you need help. And then heaven heaven will come down and save you from whatever trouble you may be in. That way, the monsters youre afraid of, will never get a chance to bite you.” So sometimes, when I was young, I would lay in bed, waiting for sleep to come with the florescent light above me, beaming with full force, my mother would come turn it off, so we could save money on the electric bill, and Id get scared again, so I shuffled to the edge of my bed, stare out my window, look at the moon, remember what daddy told me, take out the seashell I stole from the ocean, put it up to my ear and listen to that section of the world where every movement, and every mark, and every memory, gets erased by the restlessness of the waves. And so my little punk-ass would finally go to sleep. But Ive never seen the ocean the same way since. And now, I know that monsters dont live there. And these days, theres no more seashells for children to steal. And Ive learned that the moon controls the tides, so I dont blame the water for having ADHD anymore. And I havent seen my father the same way since, either. Because I saw the ocean in him once. That day when he said goodbye. When he opened my bedroom door, with his whole life packed into green and black cases. Gave me the kind of hug that says “Im sorry” and left in a taxi. When he left, I closed the door again, and threw my headphones