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He Is My Friend, My Own Flesh, and Blood

Although I knew my dad wouldn’t live forever… I never thought he would die. The loss of my father will be life changing. It is something I will never forget or get over. My mother tells me “Life is not fair sometimes. Your father is a great man, it makes me cry when I remember all the wonderful times I have shared with him. I will miss him as you will too Leah.” The black smudges of make-up run down my face continue as streams of silence. My mind of speech was becoming shattered, not speaking a word as I choked to not even sigh. I felt a hole that was deep inside me, the thought of my father fading from my life lingering within the emptiness. So much of me will go with him, yet so much of us together will never go anywhere.
Another night went by where I lie in bed, so tired but my eyelids have learned to forget the feeling of sleep. I had too much to think about to relax. Confusion, stress, and fear mixed itself into a heaping pool of gilt that was dumped inside me. I began to think I did something horribly wrong in this world to deserve what has torn me apart. Half of me is lost, just frozen in the midst of my broken family. The other part of me is exhausted, searching for all the answers somewhere in what seems like a black hole. All over my insides, craws this horrible wave of uselessness that makes me want to kill myself at times. I’m hopeless. I’m helpless. I can’t live without my dear dad, are only some of the ugly thoughts that have grown deep into my veins. I toss and turn in hopes of finding my old friend, comfort, which I have suddenly become strangers with. Then just giving up turned into my only option for the rest of the night. No sleep again, but it wasn’t a surprise.
A puny two hours later I got out of bed, dreading another day of pain. My energy was as weak as a baby as I made my way downstairs and to the kitchen table, where the rest of my family sat. I pulled out one of the chairs without making a sound. I didn’t think there was anything to say to the people beside who are living the same nightmare. I was just stuck in my vocabulary which becomes smaller each day. Not talking is what I have learned is the easiest way of communicating, only because I cannot put my awful thoughts into something called words. It may seem a little “zombie like” to be acting the way I did ever since I heard the life changing news of my dad, but it literally made my heart crumble. Something so devastating really does make you a different person. Only those who have experienced it will ever begin to know the emotions I dread to feel. Today is one of my worst. I can literally feel a lump in the back of my throat. The kind that people who are about to cry really hard sometimes feel, although I don’t cry. I know that it doesn’t help anything. The rest of my family knows what its like, so I don’t need to remind them of our helpless problems.
Suddenly, a few memories struck my mind, so clearly it felt as if I was reliving them. My dad was sitting beside me in the drivers seat, me in the passengers. We drove along the winding roads to the carp ponds, one of the trips we took pretty often. Then my dad parked us at a spot where an open field stretched before us, right along the water. My dad and I got out and slammed the doors, our yellow labs jumping out behind us. They were so excited to be there, because they knew exactly why we came to that spot. We always brought them there to let them run, free like the birds above us. My dad always made the best of everything and tried to make everyone happy, even our dogs. That’s why I loved this memory. It’s safe to say that thinking of this is one of the few things that puts a smile on my face; thinking of the best times I’ve had with my dad.
A couple more memories followed, almost like a video that God wanted me to see, wanted to put me in a better mood, knew I would love thinking of my dad and I together. We used to catch bull frogs by the water. Big ones, little ones, brownish ones, ones with mostly green bumpy skin, all down by the mucky ponds. My dad always caught more than me, although together we would get around fifteen. No less than ten; my dad never settled for less. Then the memory of us making snowmen in the winter followed. Him and I would pack the snow tightly and roll up the biggest snowballs possible for the body. My dad stacked the three snowballs on top of each other, because we both knew I wasn’t strong enough. It was the dad’s job. Then we used something different every time to complete the snowman. Usually a carrot for the nose, coal for the eyes, and buttons for the mouth. These memories combined are the only thing that keeps me hanging on. They are all that’s left to make me believe that this is all happening for a reason. This is all happening for the better. God knows it will be better for my dad, and better for the whole family.
He is my friend, my own flesh and blood… he fought for his life for several months. God can see he is getting tired and a cure is not meant to be, so he will put his arms around him and whisper “Come with me.” Soon to be his golden heart beating of warmth vanishing to non existence, his hard working hands will be at rest as if a witch cast a spell of cold stone to never be broken, and his eyes shall close to a sunset, but never rise once more.





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