Sugarcoated

Chapter Five

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Memory is kind of like when a tennis player hits the tennis ball with topspin. The ball goes so fleetingly quick that it barely hits the concrete court before swiftly moving forward, and it is behind you before you know it. 

Sometimes, it goes by so fast that you can't even react to it. Because what happens happens, and what just happened is that damn tennis ball just flew past your shit for eyes.

I erased that last bit, blew at the eraser pieces left behind, and continued writing what I actually meant.

Sometimes, It goes by so fast that you can't even react to it. Because what happens happens, and you can't really change the fact that you just missed the fucking ball.

Jesus, I'm out of it today. 

I shook my head, and kept my head lowered as my eyes scanned the floor of the room. The professor's footsteps were heavy, but steady. He walked behind my desk, and paused. I flinched, holding in my breath. 

I nonchalantly used my jacket sleeve to cover the latest paragraph I had written.

When he started moving again, I let out a small sigh.

I looked back at my paper, trying to focus on what the meaning of our writing topic Memory really meant to me.

What I remember, is my father. Carrying me around my house, a small cul-de-sac off to the side of a road. 

He would lift me up by my waist, and let me see the world from even higher than he could.

My dad has a lot of strength and stamina, because he is in the U.S. army. You know, the wars and drama sort of stuff.

He's a true hero. Probably why my mom likes him so much. Nobody doesn't like him.

He has a nice laugh, and a nice pair of chocolate eyes that melted my mom's soul into mushy red gore. 

Sorry that was probably a bit graphic.

Anyways, he had a nice smile, and knew how to make people do things.

Like, not in a demanding pissed off asshole sort of way, but in this sort of "you have to but if you really dont want to, you don't need to, but i've been through much worse" sort of way. 

I don't know if that sounds nice to you, but It's what makes my dad, my dad.

My dad is also the guy who taught me how to be brave. Whenever he would leave us for another army related thing, he would smile at me. Then he would tell me to take care of mom, and that he trusted me to do the right things no matter where I am or who I am dealing with.

The rule slips once in a while If i am really dealing with idiots.

My dad is working for the army right this moment, and since I don't get many of my own moments with him, It isn't hard to remember the few memories we share together.

So, I continue my short essay and write about my dad. What he taught me to remember.

Because sometimes there are things you'd want to remember forever. Such as, winning the lottery or doing well in something, etc.

Other times, there are things you don't want to remember. 

I didn't know where I was going with this topic, and at the time, I didn't care. 

I just kept writing, which was what I love doing the most.

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