Between Lions and Men

6: lay my saying to your heart

Neo

No letters. Another day with no letters.

I stare at the dust in the post man's wake. Another day with no word from the front.

"Promise you'll write?" tears welling down my face, as I said goodbye to my very brave dad.

"Of course I will, strawberry," he said, bopping my nose with one finger, "You're gonna grow big and strong, and wait for me. All right? I need my brave boy at home."

I threw my arms around his neck.

"I'll bring him back to you," ruffling my hair as I clung to my dad's leg, sobbing.

"Say bye to Uncle Pat. We'll be home before you know it."

But they weren't. They aren't. it's been years. And he's not come home. And still no letters. My last memory of my father. Bidding me farewell, crisp and neat in his uniform. I don't like that memory. I much prefer curled up in bed, him reading me a bed time story.

"Promise you'll be here when I wake up?" I mumbled, my eyes heavy.

"Promise," he said, me falling asleep in the crook of his strong arm.

And he was. But he hadn't been in all night. I even knew that then. He'd show up for breakfast only because I asked. Then he was gone again. Wild. Free. But forever my dad. Mine. He's the greatest man that ever lived.

I turn and run back down the lane to the house. My mother will be in the garden.

"There's still no letters," I say, skidding into the garden.

"I told you. He's forgotten about us," she says, not looking up from her book. "Now go play."

"He said he'd write."

"Your father is a liar. Clearly. Now stop shouting at me."

"But," I twist my hands.

"Stop disturbing me. Why do you care more about him than me?"

"I just want him to come home," I mumble, tears running down my face.

"Well he's not. Because he doesn't care about us. Why do you care about someone who doesn't care about you? Or are you just whining to get attention? You don't actually care about him. You just try to make me feel bad," she says.

"No, I'm not."

"I know what you're like. You're just like him. Why are you crying to me? If you like him so much? Oh yes. Because he isn't here. Because he left."

"He didn't want to leave."

"Just keep telling yourself that."

I run inside.

"DON'T RUN."

A few more servants shout it at me. I don't listen. I run upstairs to my room, coughing I'm crying so hard.

It's not fair.

It's not fair.

"Can't I come and live with you and Uncle Pat?"

"When you're bigger perhaps," he said, kneeling in front of me.

"But I don't like it when you're away. Mum is mad," I mumbled.

"What do we do when we're sad?" he asked.

"Let it out."

"Go on then," he said, opening his arms.

I ran into them, hitting his chest with my fists, then I wound up hugging him and squeezing him so tight. "I'm not really mad at you. I'm just sad."

"I know. That's what he's for," he says, holding up my stuffed toy horse, "See? I brought him all the way from the city. When you're feeling sad. And I'm not around to give you a good squeeze. You just squeeze and hug on him, all right? Then I'll give you the biggest hug next time I see you."

"I'm not angry with you," I said, face in his shirt.

"I know you're not. But it's okay to be angry. I used to get angry all the time when I was small—well—I still do. But it doesn't do any good bottled up inside," he said, tapping my chest, "Got to do something about it."

I nodded.

"Why are you crying?" my Uncle Pat came in, smiling when he saw me.

"I'm just sad."

"Well, we can't have that."

"It's a rough day. It's hard being a little lad," my dad said, picking me up, "That's all."

That wasn't all. He always went away. And now I need him back. I just need him. I'm sick of it. I'm so sick of it.

I pick up Horse and squeeze him.

"It's not working, Dad," I whisper, "I hate it here. I miss you. I do. I miss you. And I hate mom." And what's more. I hate that she might be right about you. And you did forget about us. And you don't love us anymore.

"Well, got to do something about it? don't I?" I ask, looking at Horse's worn fur. "Dad, I'm coming to find you."