Sunrise

In Which Prof. J Presents
A Piece of Original FictionIllustration by
Master Matt
Years later, as I lay in bed waiting to wake my two daughters to tell them that their mother had left us, this time for good, I thought about the time my father did the same. I was twelve then and we were vacationing on the beach, my parents and me. Memphis was a million miles away, and that first night as I buried myself in the cotton sheets of the condominium bed, I thought maybe my parents had left their problems as far behind as the city that birthed them.

The third morning I woke to the sound of the waves, not crashing so much as lapping against the sand like water in a tub. I could hear coffee brewing and the smell was acrid and strong and adult. The bedroom door scraped against the carpet, pulling and tearing. My dad’s warm breath was in my ear then, whispering for me to come watch the sunrise with him.

We walked down a rotting ramp to the dunes. The sand was already warm on my feet and there was a breeze coming off the water, colder than it had been the day before. My dad’s skin was dark beneath his barely buttoned shirt, the thick black hair pouring out in severe contrast to the gray wisps atop his head. He had two coffee cups in his hand, and when we sat down near the water, he handed me one. Steam floated over the cup’s lip before being ushered away by the wind.

“You ever had coffee before?” he asked.

“No. Mom always said I was too young.” I cradled the cup in both hands, blowing at the steam, trying to exert my will over the wind.

“It’s hot, so sip it slowly. Tell me if you like it.” He brought his to his lips, gurgling it, and looked over at me like I was to follow his example. I did but drank too much and it burned my tongue. A little dribbled down my front. “It’s good,” I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

My dad smiled, and then he pushed his cup down in the sand. He pointed to the east, where the tip of the sun was emerging behind a row of buildings. “Don’t look directly at it, just the edges,” he said. The slate sky was starting to add color to itself, the gray turning blue, the black of the waves lightening. I took another sip of my coffee, a smaller one, and found that I didn’t like the taste as much as I hoped. Maybe when I was older, I thought. Maybe when I had my own kids.

“Your mom went home this morning,” he said. “We’re staying here until Friday, then we’ll go back too.”

I nodded. What he said felt right. They hadn’t screamed at each other last night, a good sign that hadn’t felt like one. More like an eye of a storm with worse wind and rain behind it.

“Things will be different when we get back,” I said.

“Yes, they probably will be.”

“She wanted you to stay here with me.” I said it, I didn’t ask it.

“She thought you would prefer me,” he said, and I heard him take another sip of his coffee. “She thought it would be easier coming from me since I’m your dad.”

“And dads explain things better to sons, just like moms explain things better to daughters?”

“Something like that. I think she felt it was my job.”

“So, because I’m a boy,” I said, turning to face him, “you stayed and she left?”

“No. Not because you’re a boy. Because I am.”

I stood then, grabbing my coffee cup. The sun was full above the water and the birds were starting to dip into the waves. It was very quiet, and I thought there would have been more noise, more praise to announce the sunrise. I watched a small gull hover above a crest, floating, and then it stopped moving its wings completely, its tiny frame crashing into the wave below like a fragile suicide bomber. A blink later it emerged, moving away, its mouth empty. I poured my coffee into the ocean.

In the morning I will wake my daughters and walk them down to the beach that we live on. I will bring them their first cups of hot tea because I never took to coffee. I’ll explain that not everyone stays where they should, and that sometimes parents get it backwards and fathers have to answer to daughters. I will tell them to look at the edges of our family and not the center. I will hope this time it works.