I am a servant of the Secret Fire

"Prometheus," you know, means Foresight. It was his brother, Epimetheus, that gave away all the gifts to the other animals, leaving none for Man. That name means Hindsight. That brother's folly led to the infinite sacrifice of Prometheus, who stole for us the Fire Divine, only to be lashed to a rock in Hell, to have his organs ripped from his steaming body and devoured by eagles every day, to regenerate, to be eaten alive, again and again, forever. For us.

I'd go to Hell for my baby girl. I would give up Heaven in a heartbeat. Even knowing that Hell means the loss of love, the loss of the memory of love, the poisoning of everything love was. For her I would sacrifice everything I am, even the very love of her, even the ability to cherish the remembrance of her face. I would fall into everlasting hate for her. Eat my organs? Pfff. Don't even waste my time. My wife had her organs eaten every day of our HG pregnancy, just to bring Sonya into this world. For the love of my daughter, if only one of us could go to Heaven, I would suffer the eternal loss of love. I love her like nothing I ever imagined before she came into our lives.

And I can't even tell you what she's done to make me love her so much. I think about it, sometimes. What if she gets older and asks me why I love her? What can I say? Because you're my daughter. Because you're my girl. Because you're my Sonya from God. It's not anything she's done, it's just—she's Sonya. How can I ever love her enough?

It's been a year now since that harrowing night when she came out of my beautiful screaming wife. She walks now, just a bit. She can say "kitten," and (I'm like 85% sure) "tree." She has a powerful personality, and I'm so excited to see the woman she'll become. She's going through a clingy phase right now, and it's exhausting that I can't put her down without her fussing; but the second she goes to bed and I'm free to move about the house, I miss her. She fills me up and past capacity in a way that redefines everything I ever understood about the concept of love. I love her so much it's impossible, yet there it is.

And here's what it feels like, most days. Ellie's pregnant again, which is wonderful, but also terrifying and crippling. I'm unemployed and still fucked up on anxiety since the car crash, and I spend my days trying to keep the house clean against this avalanche of entropy that constantly multiplies the amount of dishes and laundry that we own by ten and makes it all dirty, while trying to keep myself and Ellen and Sonya fed, and also trying to pursue a writing career, and also trying to sleep every now and again.

I'm no Gandalf. My Secret Fire is writing stories about other people going out and having adventures. I did that shit once. My time is over. That's okay. Getting Sonya's pants on while she kicks her feet like a pissed-off Michael Flatley is my adventure now. And grappling with my eel-like daughter while trying to wipe shit off every nearby surface and get her spurting diaper out the cat-door into the trash before she gets her flailing hands on it, is like stepping into the Octagon with a blood-doping Balrog as far as I'm concerned.

I would not have it otherwise. I would not miss one day with this girl. Nor with my wife, whom I wished I could marry the very same evening we met. But I cannot see one day ahead right now. Right now I'm clinging to the rock and offering my organs for the women I love. I'm a Prometheus with no Fire to offer.

But none of that matters. The Fire was never mine. God loves Sonya. He loves her better than I ever, ever could. If I can just be the conduit for His love, if I can just be instrumental, or even just involved, in her receiving love, then that's enough. I just want her to be loved.