Dear Stanley [Watty's 2019. Completed]

Dad

Saturday, March 30th

Dear Stanley,

I had my first conversation with Dad in over 5 weeks.

When I opened the front door this morning, I didn't expect to see him sleeping on the front steps. But my brain realized that too late, so instead I tripped over him and ended up flat on the concrete walkway with a tear in my jeans.

Mom and Dad normally are at work on the weekend. Or just not home. So it was surprising to see him sitting there as if he did it all the time. He was asleep, leaning on the door frame. My nasty fall didn't stir him at all. He looked horrible, unshaven and ragged. Any pedestrian passing by would assume he was a hobo sleeping on someone's steps.

He was snoring peacefully, and I was tempted to just leave him there. I never saw Dad look this peaceful after you left. He always seemed tense and on the brink of insanity. Moms constant nagging towards him didn't help.

But I couldn't leave him there. I had to do something.

I got up slowly from the ground and approached him. I remembered what happened with Mom and cringed.

I took a moment to regain my composure. Dad wasn't like Mom. Dad was the calmer one.

I laid a soft hand on his shoulder and shook him gently, "Dad?"

He immediately sprung to life. I guess his sleep wasn't as deep as I thought. His gray eyes were foggy with longing and sleep.

He blinked several times before his brain registered what was happening. Then he slowly tried to look at me.

I saw how weak he had become, nothing like the strong man he was. His eyes were red rimmed and his skin was pale.  There wasn't even a sliver of the person he used to be.

Anyone could look at him and tell something bad had happened that destroyed him.

And that bad thing was you leaving, Stanley.

"Come on, let's get you inside the house." I gently said. At first I thought he'd refuse my aid, but he was too tired to do anything except comply. I used my strength to pick him up, and it was like picking up a dead person. It was like he was limp and incapable of moving without assistance. It made me want to cry, but I know I cry too much so I bit my lip really hard to stop it.

Once I managed to drag him to the kitchen table, he collapsed in a chair. I stood by, watching him. He was slumped over the table, his eyes wide open as if he was prey looking for the predator.

I wanted to talk to him much to my astonishment.

I took a seat next to him, and stared, waiting to se what he would do. Eventually, he spoke.

"I'm so damn tired, Nicolas."

He was looking at the table while speaking, but I still felt a surge of hope within me.

He remembered my name.

"I know Dad. We all are."

Dad looked up when I said that, and he peered at me questioningly. I felt my heart hammer against my chest. Dad used to always pay attention to you, but here he was, finally talking to me. Looking at me and no one else.

"You look horrible."

"So do you."

Dad cracked a smile at my response, and for a second he looked normal. For a second I could pretend that the red collared shirt he was wearing wasn't crumpled and unbuttoned, that he was looking presentable and sharp - ready to go to work.