Empty Doorways and Unpiloted Spaceships

Last night I went to bed early (10:30 p.m. in our house is early), exhausted from work, laundry, and cleaning, but mostly from my thoughts, my memories, my sadness, and my tears. I don't feel depressed, yet it is hard to fight the urge to completely shut down.



I was lying in bed, willing myself to just close my eyes and let sweet sleep lead me away from constant emptiness for eight hours, or seven, or six, or less. It depends on how often I wake from dreams I've been having, again and again since December 12th, of everyone in my life except Dad, who's been pointedly missing.



Instead I found that I could not stop staring at the doorway, even through the darkness, thinking back. Remembering.



When Bimpsy and I were younger, we shared a room. Put two giggling girls who were never quiet and certainly never still during the day in the same room, and expect them to go to sleep right away. Sure. That'll happen.



"Go to sleep, girls."

Twenty minutes later.

"Go to sleep, girls!"

"We can't!"

"TRY!"

Twenty minutes later.

"GIRLS! Go to SLEEP!"

"Dad, we CAN'T! Will you do the dance? PLEASE?? We'll be your best friend!"



We'd lie there, waiting anxiously, staring at the doorway with baited breath. Dad would usually leave us hanging for a few excruciating minutes, and then eventually the hall light would flicker on and we knew what was coming.


Dad dancing across our doorway.


First he'd start slowly and maybe just walk by, giving us a silly look. Then, he'd go back across, flapping his arms like a chicken. Then across again, walking like an Egyptian. Hopping on one foot. Moonwalking. Pretending to go down a flight of stairs. Back and forth, over and over across our doorway. Peals of laughter floated from our room as every dance got funnier and crazier. On a couple of occasions, he'd even grab a broomstick and pretend he was doing the limbo.



"Do it again, Daddy! One more! Just one more time!"



One more time would become ten more times, until he would finally run out of steam and come into our room. At which point, he would sit down on our beds and tell us that if we weren't good and didn't go to sleep, The Mothership would come for us some time in the night. The Mothership being the alien craft that would come and whisk us away into the dark depths of space, lost forever. Enough to scare any kid into going to sleep. Then he'd whistle and hum at the same time, loud then soft, loud then soft, signifying the sound that The Mothership makes when it lands on bad little kids' rooftops.



He'd kiss us good night, tuck us in, and go.



Then come back. One more dance.

"Girls, I'm really leaving."

Come back, do ONE MORE DANCE, and go.


And now...


Now, he's really gone.