The Sun Also Rises (One-Shot)
I read everything by Ernest Hemingway, it was sort of like a ritual for me. Wake up in the morning, before the sun decided to peek itself though the big windows in our bedroom, and sit out on the back porch and just read. It’s not a big porch, a small one with just enough room for two chairs, just enough room for you and me. You’d get so mad sometimes when I was wrapped up between Hemingway’s verses and flows and didn’t give you the amount of attention you wanted. It was cute how you’d pout and sulk, looking just like our daughter. I knew you did it on purpose but I always acted like I didn’t notice you until you began to stomp your feet, that always made me laugh. It’s no surprise why our daughter always throws fits when she doesn’t get her way.
You’d always hop off the porch when I sat the book down, and you’d jump right onto the snow with those furry boots that I hated, but you said were “oh so comfortable” and you’d kneel down and trace my name in the snow with your finger. You’d always trace the L in cursive and then sort of scribble the rest of the letters, it looked more like “Leeey” than “Larry” but I could never say anything because we all knew how bad my penmanship was. You’d trace big hearts all around my name and it made me feel special. You knew that, because I’d always have a dumb smile on my face from the porch, right before I walked down those three steps to hold you in my arms.
Two springs ago it was like that every morning. We’d kiss and touch and talk under the rising sun, until we couldn’t stand the cold anymore. And then you’d kiss me again before starting to walk back in the house, but you knew I’d never let you go that easy. I’d tug you back close to my chest and stare at how the wind blew your hair and the sun would illuminate your eyes. It was in those morning moments when I questioned if angels really did roam the Earth and if you were one of them.
I could always count on you to fill the whole house up with delicious smells coming from the stove. You wore the title “chef” better than anyone I knew and the kitchen was your battlefield that you won daily. I’d pick up my copy of Hemingway and head inside the warmth. By that time our daughter was up and running around the house screaming out, “the aliens are trying to get me!” That was another thing she got from you, believing in things that no one else did. I’d always play along and act like I could see them too. It was more fun at night, when the three of us lied on our backs in the back of my old pickup truck and star gaze, you were always waiting to catch a UFO or a shooting star. I never asked you what you’d wish for if you were to see one.
I felt like I didn’t need to wish for anything, everything I could have ever wanted, I had right there.
You loved spring the most, you said it brought out the best in people. You loved that it was the time the flowers began to bloom and the trees began to get their strength back. You loved watching the snow slowly melt off the rooftops. I think I fell in love with spring because of you, you remind me of spring, when you smile it’s like a rising sun. In the words of Hemingway, “When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagements, each day had no limits. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.” I always thought of you when I read this.
Originally I was more of a winter-kind-of guy. The snow had this way of stealing my attention. I loved to stare at it and bask in its pure white glory. It was magical. There were mountains in the distance, ancient and strong, they must have been there when the Earth was first created. The tips of the mountains were white with melting snow as the sun always seemed to be shining behind them. My favorite thing to do was sit our daughter on my shoulders so she could look at the mountains with me. She’d always ask me, “Daddy can mountains talk? Do mountains have feelings?” And I’d tell her, “Of course they do. Everything on this Earth has feelings.” Then she’d say, “Even the snow daddy?” I’d smile at that. “Yes baby even the snow.” She loved the snow like me. The only problem was making sure that she didn’t get frostbite. She never wanted to come inside.
You loved bringing her out wherever you went, especially to the grocery store so that she could read off the things you needed on the little lists you’d make. You loved the reactions people in town had whenever they’d see her read. They’d always say stuff like, “Wow, how old is she? She’s so little and smart and articulate!” and you’d always boast and smile and say, “Thank you, she’s three years old.” And everyone would gasp in surprise and marvel at how poised and intelligent our daughter was. I loved watching you at those times because you deserved just as much praise for being a good mother. She got her critical mind from the both of us though; I won’t let you take all the credit for that.
On most nights when winter was just ending, and spring was starting to bloom, we’d have sleepovers around the house. My favorite place was the living room, because that’s where all the books were, but yours was our bedroom, you loved to stare out the big windows before you fell asleep. I don’t know if you were searching for stars, or aliens, or what, but now I wonder if you were searching for happiness. Our daughter, she loved having sleepovers in the oddest places, the kitchen a few times, which I didn’t mind since we snuck a few of the cookies you made, while you were sleeping. Her all time favorite spot was the bathroom, she just had to sleep in the bathtub. When I think back, I’m not really sure how the three of us were able to fit in that small room. I’d lay in the tub, legs dangling off while she cradled against my chest, you’d always lean your head against the door waiting for us to fall asleep so that you could go in our bed. I always knew but never said anything. I would have done the same if I could instead of waking up with crooks in my neck.
We didn’t have a television in the house but time still blared on. You’d always play vinyls on your dad’s old record player. I’d get so mad sometimes because you knew I was either reading or writing and I couldn’t concentrate. It was my turn then to pout and sulk and stomp my feet. But I could never stay mad for too long. I’d watch you dance around the house with your bare feet, you knew all the words to every song and man you were so beautiful. So filled with life and so much soul. You’d come around me and bump my shoulder with your hip, I’d ignore you at first but you knew how to get me on my feet so I could dance too. We’d dance and sing all day and night. I guess it was a good thing we didn’t have any neighbors close by, I don’t think they would have appreciated our loud singing voices. Especially yours, you weren’t that good at it, but I’d listen to you sing at anytime and any moment.
There wasn’t much we’d argue about in the ten years of knowing each other. We’d been best friends and lovers since sixteen and yet it always felt like every day was the first date. I think what kept us together so long was the friendship, I could tell you anything and know that my words were safeguarded. You had a way of making me feel validated, like I wasn’t just walking through life without a purpose. In the words of Hemingway, “I can’t stand it to think my life is going so fast and I’m not really living it.” With you, it felt like my whole world was just beginning. And when I thought nothing could get better, our daughter was born, and she set my universe on fire. She looked me dead in my eyes the first time I held her and I feel like she already knew who I was.
You changed when you had her. If I think back, to be fair, I’d say we both did. You became more serious about life, not the same carefree girl that you were at sixteen. Things that never used to bother you, suddenly did. I knew you wanted what was best for our daughter, but sometimes, I just didn’t get you.
Sometimes I felt like I wasn’t even talking to you when I was.
I think when I really started to notice that my own personal spring wasn’t blooming anymore was the past two winters. It had been the longest winter and our home had turned into a stale bitter icebox. There was no warmth. There was no spring.
You hated that I was still writing a book, you’d scream at me, “It’s been three years Larry and you’re still writing this book! There is no book! Get a job, a real job!” If I were Hemingway, I’d say, “The hardest part about writing a novel is finishing it.” But I wasn’t Hemingway and those words hurt. Apparently what we had wasn’t enough anymore, or maybe it was that I wasn’t enough anymore.
My father built our home from the ground up and we didn’t have to pay a dime, all we had to pay was our time and love to watch our home prosper and grow. But it wasn’t what you wanted anymore. I’m still not really sure what you wanted at all.
You’d say you were content and that you were happy, but you’d never mean it. You’d mope around our home without breaking a smile, but I could read between those lips. You didn’t say how you felt.
Out of all of Hemingway’s words, what stuck out to me was when he wrote that “The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them.” But you, you trusted no one.
And I don’t know what I could have ever done to make you grow so cold inside when I was so warm and feverish with love. I never doubt that you stopped loving me or our daughter, I know you did and I know you always will but you weren’t happy.
I loved you unconditionally, even when you couldn’t show that same love back to me. You said I made you hate yourself less. I never knew what you meant until now. And I loved you with every fiber of my being, I don’t think it was smart but I couldn’t help it.
I proposed but we’ve never set a date…and you were okay with that even after our daughter was born. We were young and everything was unconditional. Sometimes when things first started to get rough, I’d take your hand as you slept and look at the ring I got you. It was almost like a little sign of reassurance that things would never get that bad between us.
You wanted to be a teacher. I could always see you doing that. Our daughter was a prime example of your hard work and dedication. You wanted to go to school and get a degree. The closest universities were cities away and you worried a lot but you still enrolled. I was so damn proud of you because I knew you could do it even when you thought you couldn’t. I’d bring you hot tea when you sat up countless nights at our wooden dinner table, highlighting definitions in your fancy textbooks. I’d sometimes stand in the hallway and watch how frustration pulled at your lips, without you even knowing I was there.
Things got colder when you started making new friends. I knew it was only a matter of time. You were the most vibrant person I knew, there was no way people wouldn’t flock to the blossoming garden you were. I’d almost feel jealous of the people that got to see that side of you when I didn’t anymore. I’d put our daughter in the car seat and make a big thing about “road-tripping” you off to school, I could tell you only went along with it so that you wouldn’t hurt my feelings. I’d figured that if I took you there, I’d get to be a part of your new little world. It felt like we were on two different planets most times. Two different seasons.
Our once comfortable silence turned into each of us holding our breath until someone spoke. Nothing we said ever felt right and nothing we ever done felt good enough. You used to beg me to recite Hemingway because you knew he was my favorite author, you once told me that my eyes twinkled when I spoke about something I loved. And you used to love that about me. It’s a wonder how quiet things turned out, how spoken words turned into print, and how your listening ear turned into a pen. We barely spoke. We barely danced. We barely sang. We drifted away and I stopped caring about being a part of your new little world.
I think people put too much emphasis on relationships ending, but what about friendships? Well what happens with that? Because, see, to me it’s the same as the tall mountains crumbling down to bits and pieces smaller than us. To me, it’s like those stupid UFO’s crash landing into the ocean. To me, it’s like waking up to the coldest winter without your sweater and without all the special moments that keep you warm. Because to me, you were my best friend, you were my spring, and that came before any other relationship I could have ever had.
I stopped writing this winter. I spent all my days staring at a blank page of my journal with Hemingway’s words scribbled upon it, saying, “Maybe…you’ll fall in love with me all over again.“
“Hell,” I said, “I love you enough now. What do you want to do? Ruin me?”
“Yes. I want to ruin you.”
“Good,” I said. “That’s what I want too.”
I’d rather you ruin me than ruin our friendship. That can’t end, it’s supposed to be full of beginnings. Who am I supposed to speak with about this? Where do I go to empty all of my feelings? How do I cope with bottling it all in? I can lose a lover but not a best friend. Why couldn’t we just make it work?
I guess that’s just life sometimes.
I’d never want us to end up in a situation as Hemingway describes, “The most painful thing is losing yourself in the process of loving someone too much, and forgetting that you are special too.” You’d always be special to me, even when you weren’t at your best. Because when you’re spring, and you have a garden looming deep inside of you, you can’t help but to bloom when the sun comes out.
I will always love that about you even as I look for the right words to say.
It snowed last night and the roads were slick and wet. But this morning, as I stepped out onto the back porch without a book this time, I watch as the sun starts to rise from behind the mountains.
“Daddy what are you doing out here?” My little bundle of joy startled me as she made her way onto the porch. She crossed her arms over her thin pink long sleeve. She walked towards me, almost knocking over the suitcases that lined up the wall.
I turned around and lifted her up into my arms, letting her sit against my hips. “I think the appropriate question is, what are you doing out here?”
She shrugged, “I woke up because mommy is crying.” Her lips were in a pout and I knew it was only a matter of time before she began to cry herself.
I wiped a tear that fell from her eye. “I know baby,” I whispered, kissing her forehead.
“Why is she crying daddy?”
I felt my heart ache. “She just needs some time and then she’ll be okay, baby. I promise.”
“But why?” she whined, staring into my eyes with the same intensity she had the day she was born.
I swallowed the lump forming in the back of my throat. Even as a writer, I was at a loss of words. “Um, because…”
“Daddy I don’t like when she’s sad. Go in there and make her happy daddy.”
“I wish I could baby,” my voice cracked and I had to look away from her.
She wrapped her small arms around my neck. “Why are you out here daddy? Where are you going?” She glanced down at the suitcases on the porch. “Why are your bags out here?”
I felt the wind blowing hard against my ears, I knew they were probably red like hers. “Those are mommy’s. Daddy’s helping her put them in the car.”
Her interest was piqued and she twists and turned in my arms to get a better look at the bags. “Why are you putting them in the car?”
I bit down on my lip too hard, I could taste the salt ooze into my mouth.
“You ask a lot of questions huh?”
“Yeah like you always tell me to.”
“Yeah I know. I guess that’s my fault then.”
“Daddy tell me. Why is mommy crying?”
I sighed, white frosted smoke coming out of my mouth. “Um, you guys are going on a little trip.”
“A trip?!” she clasped her tiny hands together as her mouth formed a full circle. “A trip where?!”
I could have cried at her excitement and unknowingness. “To a cool new house.”
Her eyebrows drew in together. “A new house?” She repeated, animated.
“Yeah,” I cleared my throat. “To a new house. It’s really nice I think you’ll love it.”
Her face contorted into confusion, not even my super-three year old could comprehend. “But I live here.”
“I know baby,” I kissed her hands, warming them up with mine.
“Yes, you and mommy do.” My throat was burning.
“Daddy,” she shook her head. “What about you?”
“I’ll be here baby.” Fuck, I couldn’t hold the tears in any longer.
“Baby it’s okay, you can come here and see me whenever you want. Your new house has shiny new floors and your new room is pink and pretty.”
“But daddy-“ she couldn’t finish her sentence when she choked out a cry.
“I know, I know,” I rocked her in my arms. I could feel my shirt becoming damp.
“I wanna live here. With you.” She cried.
“I know baby, but mommy and I…we…” I couldn’t finish.
“No daddy!” she wailed in my arms.
“You and mommy might come back, we just have to wait and see, that’s all.” I tried to sound convincing, but we both knew this will be the end. “And we can come out here in the mornings like we always do and I can read to you and then eat breakfast.”
“Daddy I don’t wanna leave you,” she finally looked up at me with watery eyes.
“You won’t be, just sometimes like on the weekdays, we don’t have all of that figured out yet.” I knew she probably didn’t understand what I was talking about, I started rambling, I needed to get it out. “And when you come here, nothing will change, we’ll still have our sleepovers-“
“But mommy won’t be here.”
“She, um-“ I glanced down at my boots and then back at my baby. “I love you. And your mom loves you-“
“But you don’t love each other no more,” she pouted, her body shaking, getting worked up all over again.
“No that’s not true.” I shook my head, biting down on my lip. “I’ll always love your mother, with everything in here baby,” I placed her hand on my chest. “You don’t understand it now but everything will get better, I promise you.”
She threw her head against my chest and cried. I don’t know how long I stood out on the porch, cold but warm with her in my arms. She cried, cried, and cried some more.
“Baby look at me,” I paused until she looked up. “Do you want to know what your daddy’s favorite author once said?”
“He said that, “But man is not made for defeat, a man can be destroyed but not defeated”.”
She pondered for a moment. “But I’m a girl daddy.”
“Yes I know that sweetie, uh the gender is interchangeable,” I paused and tried not to laugh at her puzzled expression. I swiftly lifted her up and placed her on my shoulders. “What I’m trying to say is that….we are going to be okay.”
“Because look? Do you see that?” I pointed out far ahead to the mountains and the growing sun behind it.
“That’s the sun. It means spring is coming and when there is spring, there is happiness.
