Dad left the house to take out the trash. He never came back. It was cold outside, I’m told; I don’t remember—I wasn’t there, or I wasn’t old enough to remember. I heard that he just walked outside and stood on the front porch for a moment, staring out into the dark. The only light came from a few street lamps nearby; we grew up in a small rural town where laws prevented too much light pollution. I imagine that he stood there—his breath creating a fog in front of his eyes; I imagine feeling that cold and isolated, even for just a moment, would be enough to make anyone run—anything to stay warm. He was wearing joggers and a plain white T-shirt: his comfort clothes. After a moment, without warning, he took off, running with perfect precision, darting towards the nearest street light, and then around the corner—never seen again.
The police didn’t turn up anything useful. No suspects. No indication as to where he went. I was confused. Mom suggested I spend some time with Grandma while the town continued its investigation. The police kept asking questions about what my dad did before he disappeared: Was he acting odd? Was there anything he had said that might illuminate why he would do such a thing? Did he express interest in any new hiking trails nearby? Mom was sad. I’d never seen her this stressed. “It takes a village,” the cops suggested, as everyone rallied to try finding him. They searched forgotten trails and riverbanks. They searched nearby towns. No leads. No indication that he was injured or had stopped anywhere. No trace. We hung posters around town and spoke to the media about his disappearance. They were sympathetic, but detached from our pain, so they didn’t bother covering us after the story grew stale.
Some said he was erratic. There were eyewitness reports of him angrily talking to himself on his evening jogs. Dad did do things like that, but it never bothered me; I preferred that he express his frustration to ghosts rather than to Mom and me. He cooked every day and showed me things: how to chop vegetables; how to mix pancake batter; how to peel boiled eggs. Sometimes, when I was sad, he’d sit with me and hum along to music of my choice. I miss those days. I want him to come back. Some said that he ran away from Mom and me—something about too much responsibility. I don’t buy that, though; he always chose to spend time with us, even when things got tough, when I was tired, or when he was tired. If anything, the responsibility kept him grounded; he needed me there, to need him. It helps having someone around who’s more unstable than yourself—it helps having someone around who’s more unstable than yourself: you have to hold yourself together because they depend on you.
Then again, maybe that’s why he left? He was tired of teaching everybody else to swim; nobody realized that he was sinking, too—his arms could only keep him above water for so long—so he left the pool. Or maybe he was just cold and wanted to warm himself by going on a short jog around the house. It wouldn’t have been the first time he went running after the sun went down. He wanted the world. I heard that his first breath as a newborn was so large that he punctured a hole in his lung. Maybe that puncture was inevitable, a symptom of a larger problem. Perhaps Dad was doomed from the start, hungry for the world, so that he would just pursue it, no matter the cost, even if that meant leaving us behind.
Or, maybe he just wanted to go for a jog?