His face materializes in front of me, faded and blurry like a mirage. I reach out to touch him, but he disappears in a whirl of smoke. I pull back my hand shakily and glance around checking if anyone noticed me going slightly insane. He’s gone. He’s dead. He’s not really there. I say it over and over again to the rhythm of my feet slapping against hard concrete.
My head is turtled in between my shoulders and my eyes count the cracks in the path. I think I here a voice calling my name, but I just walk faster and bend closer to the ground, as if I get close enough the ground will just swallow me up. But it doesn’t and I’m still here.
I’ve reached my spot. A bench on the corner of a busy street, a spot where I can watch people walk, run, skip and gallop on by. I used to come here all the time for inspiration; that was when I was still dreaming of becoming an author. Secretly, I took note of the rushing businesspeople, sweating joggers, wild-eyed drunks and the desperate homeless.
Now, it’s the only place I can still feel him. I used to be able to sense his presence everywhere, but as everyone else moved on I could feel him slipping away. I still cry myself to sleep, full of confusion and questions that no one can answer. The first few nights, he visited me and tucked me in like he used to when I was small. He told me everything was going to be okay and let me cry on his shoulder. The moments were always ruined when my mum came in and asked me why I was talking to myself. She’d give me a concerned look, but wouldn’t say anything else. She wants me to open up to her, but I can’t, I just can’t.
I feel him sitting next to me, but every time I look over he’s gone. So, I watch the crowd mingle on by and whisper every thought that comes into my head to him. I can tell he’s nodding because I can no longer here is voice. Memories float around in my mind like buoys bobbing in the sea, but I just can’t seem to grab hold of his voice. I’ve started to forget what it sounds like, sometimes even his face blurs and I panic. I can never, ever forget him. What kind of person would I be if I forgot my dad?
Black. That’s all I can remember from the funeral. Black, black, black. Everyone swarmed around me like flies and I remember how much I just wanted to swat them away. People came and went throwing out condolences here and there like he meant something to them. But he didn’t. Voices said this, that and the other, but I could barely here them. Instead, I have a never-ending song blasting out its sad melody in my ears and I can still here it now, just a little quieter and a little less depressing. In fact, I’ve noticed the song is getting happier, sweeter. If my thoughts ever stray from him, for even a second, I feel as if someone has cut me up into a million tiny pieces. The guilt is overpowering.
We did everything together, him and I. He was the one who taught me how to ride a bicycle and run with a kite so it catches the wind and soars up high. He showed me the world from the top of a castle to the deepest of tunnels. When he took up painting he called me his muse and when he gave that up and tried writing he dedicated every short story and poem to me.
One day I came home from school and he said, “El, I here the lions calling. I think we have to go greet them.” We flew off to Africa because in his eyes the best way to learn is to experience. So, we spent two weeks going on safaris and exploring. When I got older I stopped wanting to miss school and I got really mad at him. I didn’t understand why he couldn’t just be normal like the other dads. After that he never asked if I wanted to go an adventure again. Oh, but I wish he would arrive and whisk me off to go camping or fishing in the lake. Anything to know he’s still around.
I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts that I barely notice the shift of weight on the bench. I don’t glance over because I’m trying to reach out, to see if he’s still with me. I sigh inwardly, because whoever just sat down next to me squashed whatever essence of my dad that was left. Maybe tomorrow. Hope is all I cling to.
A hand reaches out and uncurls my fingers, which have been screwed up in little fists. I recognize the touch. I rest my hand on the bench and my mum places her hand over mine. We are silent, watching the world move on while we stay frozen. I turn to look at her and see the tears rolling freely down her cheeks. I haven’t seen her cry since the day dad died, but I hear her at night when she thinks I’m asleep.
“We’re going to be okay,” she promises with a sigh. She’s trying to make me feel better, I know this, but I get this sense that she wants to stop crying, stop missing him. And in a way I do too. I want this hollow feeling in my chest to leave. I want to go to school and be just another girl, not the girl whose dad just died in a car crash. I want to be able to think of my dad without hearing the sad melody play in my head on a loop.
“I don’t want to forget him,” I whisper desperately. My bottom lip is trembling and I can feel tears welling, but I know my dad would want me to be strong.
“Oh, baby,” my mum gives me a hug, “You won’t forget him. He’s here all the time, you just can’t see him.” I know she’s right, because I can feel him too. I stand up my knees popping and cracking, making me realize how long I’ve been here.
“Can you give me a minute?” I ask her. Her eyebrows rise as if to say ‘You want to have a minute with the bench?’ However, she turns and starts heading back to our apartment. I spin around and stare at the bench, pretending my dad is sitting on it starting right back. I close my eyes briefly and let all of our memories flash by. I know I have to let go. I have to stop searching for him because he isn’t coming back. Tears are threatening to spill out, as I say goodbye to my dad.
“Goodbye, Daddy,” I whisper quietly, “I’ll see you soon.” The wind breathes its way across my shoulder and I pretend it’s his touch. I take a deep breath and walk away. My mum is waiting for me at the top of the street. Our hands link and we continue walking until the bench is no longer visible, but we know it’s still there.
When I get home I take out my notebook, which is covered in dust. I need to tell my story. So, I turn to a new page and begin. ‘His face materializes in front of me, faded and blurry like a mirage…’
His story his over, but mine is just beginning.
My head is turtled in between my shoulders and my eyes count the cracks in the path. I think I here a voice calling my name, but I just walk faster and bend closer to the ground, as if I get close enough the ground will just swallow me up. But it doesn’t and I’m still here.
I’ve reached my spot. A bench on the corner of a busy street, a spot where I can watch people walk, run, skip and gallop on by. I used to come here all the time for inspiration; that was when I was still dreaming of becoming an author. Secretly, I took note of the rushing businesspeople, sweating joggers, wild-eyed drunks and the desperate homeless.
Now, it’s the only place I can still feel him. I used to be able to sense his presence everywhere, but as everyone else moved on I could feel him slipping away. I still cry myself to sleep, full of confusion and questions that no one can answer. The first few nights, he visited me and tucked me in like he used to when I was small. He told me everything was going to be okay and let me cry on his shoulder. The moments were always ruined when my mum came in and asked me why I was talking to myself. She’d give me a concerned look, but wouldn’t say anything else. She wants me to open up to her, but I can’t, I just can’t.
I feel him sitting next to me, but every time I look over he’s gone. So, I watch the crowd mingle on by and whisper every thought that comes into my head to him. I can tell he’s nodding because I can no longer here is voice. Memories float around in my mind like buoys bobbing in the sea, but I just can’t seem to grab hold of his voice. I’ve started to forget what it sounds like, sometimes even his face blurs and I panic. I can never, ever forget him. What kind of person would I be if I forgot my dad?
Black. That’s all I can remember from the funeral. Black, black, black. Everyone swarmed around me like flies and I remember how much I just wanted to swat them away. People came and went throwing out condolences here and there like he meant something to them. But he didn’t. Voices said this, that and the other, but I could barely here them. Instead, I have a never-ending song blasting out its sad melody in my ears and I can still here it now, just a little quieter and a little less depressing. In fact, I’ve noticed the song is getting happier, sweeter. If my thoughts ever stray from him, for even a second, I feel as if someone has cut me up into a million tiny pieces. The guilt is overpowering.
We did everything together, him and I. He was the one who taught me how to ride a bicycle and run with a kite so it catches the wind and soars up high. He showed me the world from the top of a castle to the deepest of tunnels. When he took up painting he called me his muse and when he gave that up and tried writing he dedicated every short story and poem to me.
One day I came home from school and he said, “El, I here the lions calling. I think we have to go greet them.” We flew off to Africa because in his eyes the best way to learn is to experience. So, we spent two weeks going on safaris and exploring. When I got older I stopped wanting to miss school and I got really mad at him. I didn’t understand why he couldn’t just be normal like the other dads. After that he never asked if I wanted to go an adventure again. Oh, but I wish he would arrive and whisk me off to go camping or fishing in the lake. Anything to know he’s still around.
I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts that I barely notice the shift of weight on the bench. I don’t glance over because I’m trying to reach out, to see if he’s still with me. I sigh inwardly, because whoever just sat down next to me squashed whatever essence of my dad that was left. Maybe tomorrow. Hope is all I cling to.
A hand reaches out and uncurls my fingers, which have been screwed up in little fists. I recognize the touch. I rest my hand on the bench and my mum places her hand over mine. We are silent, watching the world move on while we stay frozen. I turn to look at her and see the tears rolling freely down her cheeks. I haven’t seen her cry since the day dad died, but I hear her at night when she thinks I’m asleep.
“We’re going to be okay,” she promises with a sigh. She’s trying to make me feel better, I know this, but I get this sense that she wants to stop crying, stop missing him. And in a way I do too. I want this hollow feeling in my chest to leave. I want to go to school and be just another girl, not the girl whose dad just died in a car crash. I want to be able to think of my dad without hearing the sad melody play in my head on a loop.
“I don’t want to forget him,” I whisper desperately. My bottom lip is trembling and I can feel tears welling, but I know my dad would want me to be strong.
“Oh, baby,” my mum gives me a hug, “You won’t forget him. He’s here all the time, you just can’t see him.” I know she’s right, because I can feel him too. I stand up my knees popping and cracking, making me realize how long I’ve been here.
“Can you give me a minute?” I ask her. Her eyebrows rise as if to say ‘You want to have a minute with the bench?’ However, she turns and starts heading back to our apartment. I spin around and stare at the bench, pretending my dad is sitting on it starting right back. I close my eyes briefly and let all of our memories flash by. I know I have to let go. I have to stop searching for him because he isn’t coming back. Tears are threatening to spill out, as I say goodbye to my dad.
“Goodbye, Daddy,” I whisper quietly, “I’ll see you soon.” The wind breathes its way across my shoulder and I pretend it’s his touch. I take a deep breath and walk away. My mum is waiting for me at the top of the street. Our hands link and we continue walking until the bench is no longer visible, but we know it’s still there.
When I get home I take out my notebook, which is covered in dust. I need to tell my story. So, I turn to a new page and begin. ‘His face materializes in front of me, faded and blurry like a mirage…’
His story his over, but mine is just beginning.
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