I’m so sorry that I’m so sad all of the time. I try my best to keep it from you, masking it with silliness and conversations about truss rods and You Tube videos about how to make your little plastic guitar sound better. Like we did last night. I’m sorry that we had to wait in the cold for a bus home from your school yesterday. We made the best of it eating a soft pretzel, and you furiously embedded in ipod games, playing with your cold little hands, on a bench as all the nice cars whizzed by. But really I was ashamed. I was ashamed that I didn’t have enough money to pay my parking tickets and the city put a boot on my car, right out in front of our apartment where you can see it and will ask about it.
I’m so sorry that I lied to you and told you it was being fixed, I didn’t know what to do and had to think fast to figure out a way to pick you up from school. I just wanted to be there at the normal time so you wouldn’t worry. You seem so resilient, mostly happy in our small apartment for which I am perpetually behind on the rent. In which there are no kitchen cabinets, and the heat goes off every once in a while without you noticing. It is very different from a 3500 square foot house, but there is more love here in our little space. We make due, but barely. It makes Dad really tired all of the time. Too tired to play with you sometimes. Too tired to figure out a way to make the best of our free time without any money. My creative brain is bombarded with stress every day. I know you see it. It makes me raise my voice when I shouldn’t. It makes me distant and exhausted.
Hudson, I may have to get a roommate. I’m going to give up my room and rent it out. I’m going to pull out the trundle bed which adjoins yours, and sleep next to you in your room when you’re here with me, and sleep there when you’re not. It’s the only way I can figure out how to lower my expenses so you don’t have to choose between mac and cheese and turkey sandwiches all of the time, so we don’t have to skip every other birthday you are invited to. So I can buy something brand new for you and not wake up every Saturday morning to go to garage sales. So I can take you on a vacation away from this city. So I can be less sad for a while. There will be another person here sometimes when you’re here. Sharing this small space, crowding your two tiny play areas. Another situation for you to question. Another adjustment for you to make on this 4 year hell of an unsteady roller coaster. I always wonder when you are going to fall off, but you never do. It is I who rides hands free.
Dad loves you Hudson. Dad loves you more than anything else in the world. Dad will make this easier for you, even if you don’t really see it. Dad can’t see any other way right now. Dad has tried so many other ways…….