Babbs, 1998

By Arwen Skye Bullock 

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I feel like I have been given a hundred names throughout my lifetime, but my favorites are the ones I keep tucked in the back of my mind. I do this so that they stay special, it's not something that loses meaning because it's so common or because you allow so many others to call you by it. Though I guess I do it because it's the last memory I have of him, not like I haven't seen the shell every day, or if I even really remember this man I so claim to know. All I truly know is his handwriting, a cursive secret written on the bottom of a creased Polaroid:

 ‘Babbs, 1998’

         The picture is so distorted from the crappy flash of the camera, yellowed from age and smoke, and the seal has lifted due to water getting onto the picture. Though at this age I can't tell if it's from moving in the rain, an accidental spill, or the tears I've shed so many times over the years. Even though all of this surface damage, you can still see the can of bud light in his left hand, and the smoke rising from the ashtray beside him. Today this would seem horrible, but back then smoking was seen as a good thing, and hell, a drink never hurt either.

My father barely looks like himself in this familiar photo, he seems aloof as usual but his face is so full of life. Like he looks forward to something that I know will never happen, which may be the reason he crumbled the way he did. The little girl in that picture looks up to him with so much love and admiration I almost want to say “Dont” hoping to save what innocence she might have left inside of her. I know this picture so well I sometimes feel as if I'm walking around the Polaroid frame…

             Sometimes- when I hear the word ‘Abbs’ I freeze as some kind of reflex, thinking from time to time that it could be you calling my name back to the past. I practically hallucinate that B sounds when I hear that common nickname, hallucinating the man I wished my father was, kind, gentle, strong, and most importantly loving. However, I know better than to believe it as I relive how he is true, scornful, aloof, and fucking drunk.

            Because of this I can't help but envy other little girls on the street, holding their father's hand as they walk to the park or the ice cream shop. I imagine how we could have been if you had just put the beer down, or if Mama had intervened. I imagine we would listen to your favorite songs on vinyl, or you would teach me how to drive… instead, I don't even know your favorite songs, or if you listen to music at all.

All of these thoughts and all of these memories come back to me as I sit in the closet of my one-bedroom apartment, closing myself in with pictures as they scatter about, leaving an empty shoebox at my feet held together by duct tape. I imagine this is how my brain looks when it reminds me of you, scattered, alone, being held together solely by cheap adhesive while my name is written over each item: 

“Abigail”

 

About the Author

Arwen ‘Skye’ Bullock is currently an Illinois Central College student born and raised in Peoria, Illinois. She began writing in 2011, and was published for the first time only a year later for her title ‘Tommy the Tree’ in 2012, and again in 2023 for her poetry piece ‘Addiction’ in the Illinois Central Review. She plans on publishing her first book in the next year.