If you were listening, I would tell you the sky doesn’t look the way it used to.

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I would say that I don’t find myself pulling apart the wispy clouds with my eyes, reinventing new shapes and figures and stories. I would say that it’s hard to imagine the days when I would wait for a sunset, when sunsets were something worth waiting for.

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And then I would tell you, even though you might not believe it, that there was a time when I thought I could fly. A time when I was a younger, fresh-faced man with nothing to lose. A time when glow-in-the-dark stars littered my bedroom’s sky, and a time, much much later, when I convinced your mother to let us do the same to yours.

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And if you asked me what happened, what exactly changed, I think I would tell you that I’ve tried to understand that too. That I’ve attempted to pinpoint when exactly things stopped mattering so much, and what exactly caused them to.

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I would recall the time that I first had this thought, in the car on my way home from work. I would recount the way my eyes strayed from the street to the rearview, the way I first recognized the lack.

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I thought that if my mind would let me, I could still picture it. Everything. You and your sister’s little faces smiling up at me from the backseat. The vibrations of our favorite disc in the player. The sun on my arms as I held the wheel and tapped along to the beat.

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I could almost hear the delightful squeals of you two as I reached my right hand back and tickled your legs, the smile in your voice as you told me to watch the road. The pitchiness of your sister as she sang all the wrong words.

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But then, it’s lost.

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My mind is getting too old to fill in the gaps for me. These spaces of my own creation are decidedly empty. They’re not enough.

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Which is why, if you were asking, I have come to this conclusion.

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In my right hand is a pill bottle. I shake the contents a few times, watching the little tablets through the orange, hazy tint. 

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‘For when you start to forget,' the label reads.

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Doubt is swimming laps in my head, but I don’t let it consume me. I take a pill out of the container and reseal it. Then, I grab the cup of water on the coffee table, tilting it around and watching it with careful eyes, and I swallow the pill in one gulp.

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I fall asleep in a second.

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One moment, my eyes are droopy and sliding closed. The next, I’m awake and aware.

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My eyes dance around the room, curiously blinking over and over.

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There’s this dread deep in my gut, the feeling that it didn’t work. The feeling that I was foolish—childish, even—to believe in such a miracle. My chest feels heavy and constricted, the disappointment washing over me and sinking deep into my skin.

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I’m beating myself up in my head, allowing these emotions to drag me down and swallow me up. Letting out a heavy sigh, I allow myself to sink further into the scratchy loveseat. I touch the fabric for a moment, absentmindedly, but then I scrunch my eyebrows together and properly glance down.

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I sold this couch years ago. It was worn into bits from overuse at the time I sold it, but now it looks newer and cleaner. I look up.

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I see the box-set TV.

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I see the corded video game controller, the scattered toys. I see the coloring pages and the markers staining the table.

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I think I’m piecing it together when I strain my ears at the sound of a soft whisper to my left. I hear your sister’s voice.

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“He’s waking up,” she says, her whisper harsh.

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I shift and lean forward, looking towards the hall.

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Two small figures. They giggle into their hands.

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“Dad, we thought you were gonna be asleep forever!”

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You race towards me, and I distantly open my arms as you and your sister climb up next to me on the couch. The couch that definitely doesn’t belong here. You and your sister, who are eons younger than I can remember you being.

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“I told her she had to wait for you to wake up.”

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I turn to look at you two clearly. Your faces, usually blurry, are perfectly clear. You, my eldest daughter, have your silky hair down, your little eyes squinting up at me. You can’t be more than seven.

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Your younger sister, her hair choppy from a self-induced haircut, has her tiny nose scrunched up. She can’t be more than five.

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You don’t wait for me to respond, simply sinking into my sides like you’ve never left.

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“What time can we go trick-or-treating?” your little sister asks.

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I look out towards the open window, and the fall-colored leaves finally catch my sight.

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Halloween was always our holiday. Your mother got Christmas and sometimes even Thanksgiving, but you were always home for Halloween. The memory has me breathing in sharply, tightening my hands on both of your arms to ensure you’re actually here.

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“It’s morning, you stupid,” you retort. You display your classic eye-roll.

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My heart pangs.

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“I know that!”

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“We go once it gets dark.”

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“I was asking dad, not you.”

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“Girls,” I say, my voice shaky.

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“Yeah, yeah.”

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Another eye roll.

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But it feels too good to be true.

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You don’t recognize my internal battle, how hard it is that everything just falls into place like this. How my hands tremble as I bury my face to the tops of your heads and plant kisses, how my eyes water as I spot your sister’s mismatched socks, how my throat catches when either of you say something that really cements this picture beautifully for me. You fit into this space perfectly, and I am too aware of the gap of time.

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And it feels heavy. The weight of it all. Everything and nothing all at once.

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It’s only quiet for a moment longer. I’m used to the noise, but I’d forgotten about it similarly. It's different, and it’s the same. And it’s perfect.

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We spend most of the day on the couch there, watching cartoons and eating snack cakes. My eyes never stop watching, they never stop engraving.

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For lunch, I make you two grilled cheese. I cut the sandwiches into shapes, serving them up and indulging you in your favorite juices. I take on the role of a chef, pretending to be the owner of a prestigious restaurant. You giggle and smile and encourage me.

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I help you dress in your Halloween costumes. Your sister is a fairy, but you're some sort of movie villain. You two give me a tiara that I not-so-regretfully wear. My cheeks are pink from the watercolor blush.

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We’re out until late. I take you to the best neighborhoods, ensuring that you get the most candy. I carry you when your legs get tired. I hold your cold hands in my pockets for warmth. The other parents and their children don’t spare us a glance. We belong here, at least for now.

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And at the end of the night, I gather you both into my car and we drive home. I carry you inside, individually, even though I’m aware that your sister isn’t really asleep. You two drift off in my bed, scared of nightmares, and I leave the lamp on to chase the monsters away.

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All is as it should be. As I wished.

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Until it isn’t. 

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Until I wake up.

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I knew it was coming. In the back of my mind, as I clutched you both close, I knew it would end soon.

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But it had been perfect.

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It was everything I had remembered and more, everything I thought that I was destined to forget. Everything that I really didn’t remember, despite lying to myself on the contrary.

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I open my eyes, turning to the clock on my side table.

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Then, I get ready and go to work.

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It’s hard to pretend that it all didn’t happen. That what I felt wasn’t real, that I’m not expecting to see you girls every time I turn and look to the side.

​

My coworker notices that something is up around our lunch break.

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He’s scarfing down a sandwich, and he asks in between bites.

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“You good?”

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I could play it off, but he’s my friend of years and years. I decide to indulge him.

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“If you could relive a day from your past, what day would it be?”

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He clears his throat and takes a swig of water.

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“Dunno. Prob’ly one before I met you.”

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I roll my eyes.

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“Seriously, though,” I reiterate. “What was your best day?”

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“Maybe homecomin’ of senior year. Feel like life was simpler then,” he mutters, a little somber now.

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I hum.

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“Yeah. Yeah, guess that makes sense.”

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Later that night, I find myself staring at the postcard I received in the mail. It’s from you. The you of now, the you that’s all grown up and moved out.

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You don’t visit much, and neither does your sister. You’re busy starting your own lives, getting married and going to college. There’s not much left for me to do for you now. You don’t need me as much, if at all.

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Once upstairs, I glance at the pills still sitting on my side table. What harm would one more do? I swallow this time with less apprehension.

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And then, I’m back on the couch.

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“He’s waking up,” your sister says again.

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I smile.

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“Good morning girls,” I greet, laughing as you tumble into my arms one more time.

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“I told her she had to wait for you to wake up.”

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“Nice thinking,” I say to you, rubbing your arm.

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“What time can we go trick-or-treating?”

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This time, I respond first.

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“When it gets dark,” I say. Your sister is content with that.

​

The day passes the same. It’s just as I remember it yet again. I make you mac and cheese and we play memory board games. This time, I let you guys give me some eyeshadow and a wand that matches the tiara. You smile the whole time, and that’s how I know it’s worth it.

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When the night falls, I tuck you into your beds, but you end up in mine once again. I promise you there will be no monsters, and you fall asleep believing me.

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I sort of sink into a pattern.

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Every day, I wake up and feel that lack once again. The ache in my chest, the light reflecting on the backseat of my car through the rearview.

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And each night, I comply. I take the pills.

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There’s something implicitly simple about it that leaves no room for questions.

​

After about a week, I find myself the subject of an interrogation from my coworker.

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“Y’know, I ain’t seen you this happy in. . . well, years.”

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I casually smile, nailing a board into place. We’re working on a kitchen renovation, but it’s still in early stages.

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“Just happy, man. Is that a crime around here?” I joke.

​

He squints at me.

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“With hands as callous as ours, I would be a fool for sayin’ no.”

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I shake my head because he just doesn’t get it. He wouldn’t see the appeal if I explained it to him, anyhow.

​

Instead, I ask, “How is your boy doing?”

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He huffs.

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“Still livin’ with his mom. I mean, I can’t complain. Just wish he would go to college or somethin’, make a name for himself maybe,” he offers.

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“Yeah,” I say, and it’s dropped. I was right: he just wouldn’t get it.

​

Another week passes. I do get a letter in that time, and it tells me that your little sister is on the dean’s list.

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That night, I make sure she knows I’ll always be proud of her as I tighten her mittens and help her into her fairy wings.

​

It follows much of the same for a while. I run out of pills at one point, but I manage to get more. Stronger ones, or so I’m told. Or so I hope. 

​

You see, things have been getting a bit too blurry, and sometimes you girls say things that seem uncharacteristic. It ruins the picture.

​

But tonight, things are different. I take the pills, and everything is as it should be.

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“He’s waking up,” your sister says.

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And I wake up.

​

We spend a few hours with the cartoons. It isn’t until I’m in the kitchen making a repetitive lunch for three when I notice.

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The postcard and college letter are stuck to the refrigerator where I left them the other night, stapled with alphabet magnets that I never got around to putting away. I look back to the table where you girls sit, still young and unaware.

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These two things shouldn’t coexist.

​

I’m slipping. This piece of paradise isn’t enough.

​

Another pill-induced day later, I’m tying your sister's shoes as she gives me a look. Her face is a little blurry today, but I squint at her to give her my entire focus.

​

“Dad, you can’t live here forever,” she says.

​

And I pause. I pause because that’s not something she says at this moment, and I should know. I’ve lived this day enough times to memorize it all. Still, her innocent voice makes me play it off. She’s still filled with the youth of this memory.

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“I don’t know what you mean, sweetheart,” I say. I clear my throat. Once her shoes are tied, she gets up and races for the door. It is completely dropped. You stand next to me on our way out.

​

“She’s right, you know,” you whisper.

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I don’t reply, and the rest of the illusion passes by as it should without further disturbance.

​

And then, the next night, as I’m holding both of your hands and taking you door to door, I see another sign that makes me pause.

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A solo lamppost across the street. It sits where it always does, both in current and past days. It flickers like it recognizes me. Like it knows I don’t belong here. Like it knows I keep coming back.

​

I hear it speak to me.

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Will you ever let it go?

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Just one more time, I want to tell it. But it knows I’m lying.

​

I guess if you were listening, I would ask you to tell your sister that I’m sorry. I’m sorry things happen, and that we can’t do much at all.

​​

And that I love you, because I think that’s what I ought to say.

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But as I look up, I see it all. 

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Among the moon and the treetops, I see a sky full of stars.