Michael Hammerle
Angel Numbers
There’s a pattern I repeat. I’m looking for little moments of perfection, like synchronicities on digital clocks, to pray to. These are the moments it’s easiest for me to pray for my daughter.
5:55 p.m., I wish good health for my daughter and let the dogs outside into the backyard.
At 3:33 p.m. I wish good health for my daughter.
You’re getting the picture of what I’m looking for.
I’m grateful for this chronostasis magic that promises some fulfillment of a wish: the caught eyelash, the blown-out candles, the longer side of the wishbone, and, here, the taking notice of the beauty when numbers align on a clock.
I don’t miss an opportunity to send that good energy to my daughter when I catch the clock phenomenon. Praying to a clock cradles my fears.
I guess I believe in the wishing part of wishing her little miracles. The synchronicity of chronostasis is never staring back at me empty (or maybe it is).
I could write this whole piece and never say the words Phace Syndrome. But then how will the reader know why I’m so troubled? Bye.
It’s a little miracle that when I say Love you, baby, even if I’ve taken away her Unicorn Debbie Cake (because that’s not suitable for before bed) she says Love you, Daddy and runs down the hallway.
I call after her, walk. We don’t want her to wake up her brother.
I hear my daughter superman-dive into her bed. Her movie is muddling up the sound of my movie in the living room. Close your door.
She’s more power than finesse at this age so she slams her door shut. I hear her superman-dive again into her bed. It is only minutes before she runs back to the door and is fighting with the knob to get the door back open. I can hear her feet lightly sticking on the wood floors and she peeks from behind my recliner.
“What baby?” I say.
“I forgot to give you a kiss,” she says still behind the recliner. She runs out and crashes into me for a big hug. Her belly is full and her body radiating warmth.
I could write this whole piece and never say the words Phace Syndrome. But then how will the reader know why I’m so troubled? Bye.
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What’s living without my daughter? Bye.
*
My daughter has a mild case of eczema we are beating and she feels clammy from the night balm. She is tired and fighting sleep like there’s always something she’s going to miss while she is sleeping.
Goodnight, Dood, I say. (Dood is short for Doodle.)
She hears me and doesn’t hear me because she’s zoned out and tired. She’s looking past me and scratches a patch of eczema on the backside of her arm and remembers. Rub it, she says and pats where her arm itches. She snaps back to reality and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek before she’s running back down the hallway to her room.
Walk. We don’t want her waking up her brother.
10:10 p.m., I don’t think the symmetry is good enough for my daughter, but I waste no magic. And 11:11 p.m. rolls around, the holy grail of clock phenomenon.
Good health for my daughter, I pray.
I don’t know what I believe: prayers or illusions. But I know every day it is little spooky-action recitations that I hope enter her blood stream and heal her.
I could write this whole piece and never say the words Phace Syndrome. But then how will the reader know why I’m so troubled? Bye.
Michael Hammerle teaches creative writing and composition at a college and university. He holds an MFA from the University of Arkansas, Monticello, and a BA in English from the University of Florida. He is the founder of Middle House Review. His work has been published in The Best Small Fictions, Split Lip Magazine, Tendon at Johns Hopkins, Michigan State University’s Short Édition, Foothill Poetry Journal, New World Writing, Louisiana Literature, and elsewhere. His first book, Zero Is a Number, will be published by Finishing Line Press in November 2023. He lives and writes in North Florida. His website is www.mikehammerle.com.