The Virtual Affection | #Wattys2018

#24 Being Selfish Isn't All That Bad

                  

                  

My knees give away and I flop down upon the warm grass in front of the familiar grey marble headstone. Dry grass and ferns have grown at its edges and remnants of wilted flowers lay in front of it. It suddenly hits me that I haven't brought her any flowers. I get up and pluck some white flowers from a nearby tree. I arrange them in a line across the front of the headstone. It's pretty breezy here, under the shade. Dad had Mom's grave made under a large oak since she used to get headaches from extreme sun. Ironic, considering the way she died.

I haven't been here in... a year almost.

It's like any other local cemetery – paved brick pathways, blossom shrubs, golden trees, lush green grass sheltering the dead.  But there's just something about this place that seeps right in through my skin and sends shivers down my bones. Maybe the fragrance of death all around and atoms of rotten corpses floating around in the air. Especially the presence of my mother underneath my feet. This is not where she should be. She belongs to her home, her life. She should be humming Elvis Presley in the kitchen in her peach apron, not rotting in a wooden box ten feet underground.

I don't even properly remember her scent now. Or the sound of her voice.

"Hey, Mom," I force a smile, resting my eyes on the cold hard lump of stone spelling her name, "I know I haven't come here a while. I wanted to, but, uh, could never find time."

Great. I am lying to my mother even after she is dead. Am not I the daughter of the year.

The only reason I did not come was because I did not want reminders. I was too weak to face the pain.

"Things are...well...stressful. Dad and I don't get along, I've fallen out with my friends, I feel helpless without you. I've been a bad daughter, a bad friend, a bad everything! Why is it so hard to make things right and so easy to screw them up? Am I selfish, Mom? Am I bad? Say something, please..."

Silence clouds over the hot afternoon. The leaves flutter and the headstone remains as stagnant as ever. I sigh and look down. My eyes get blurry.

"It's not fair, Mom." My voice is choked with tears.

I place a hand on the cold hard marble.

"I wish you were here, Mom," I whisper.

Suddenly, I feel a hand touch my shoulder. Startled, I spin around to see my father looking down at me with both curious and empathetic eyes. He is still clad in his work suit but his shirt is untucked in places and his tie hangs around his neck loosely.

"Sarah?" He asks in a concerned tone.

"Dad?" I quickly wipe away my tears.

"I, uh, came to give her these," he kneels down beside me and places a bunch of beautiful yellow lilies in front of the gravestone. I wonder how often he comes here. He's never told me about his visits.

He looks over at me, "I didn't know you come here anymore."

"I don't. I was just missing her."

"Is everything alright?"

I shrug, "Yeah."

"Is there something you want to talk about?"

For a few moments, we both sit in silence staring at Mom's stone. Then I speak.

"Can I ask you something Dad?"

"Of course."

"Am I selfish?"

He laughs a little, "Why, yes, honey."

My heart sinks.

"You are selfish for love," he continues, "You are passionate – just like your Mom." I see a smile form on lips as he thinks of Mom, "You get what you want. You live life selfishly, you follow your heart selfishly, you love others selfishly. Being selfish isn't all that bad, you know."

He smiles as I look at him, "And maybe because I selfishly loved you, your Mom..." his voice fades and silence prevails again. He's never told me he loves me openly. I give him a watery smile. After a few moments of silence, I decide to spark conversation.

"Dad? How can you tell if someone really loves you?"

"Well, you can't. All you can do is trust your instincts and hope for the best. But never hold back. Trust me kid – prejudice, ego and regret, all of this will hurt you anyway. Might as well let love hurt you."

I nod and let my gaze rest on my Mom's stone once again.

"Thanks, Dad," I say quietly.

"For what?"

He understands when I don't say a word.

Just as my hand is about to grab the broken, charred one, someone yanks me back from the fire and I see a huge mass of burning debris crumble down upon the familiar figure, turning her to dust forever.

The next thing I know, I'm being hauled out through a black terrain of smoke and flames, finally out into the safety of daylight. We both hit the ground, panting and coughing. I realise it's my father, holding on to me tightly as I try to squirm away from his grip. I push him away with all my might and yell at him out of angry sobs, "I could have saved her! IT WAS ALL YOUR FAULT!"

He doesn't even try to fight back. He just stares at the ground with sad, glistening eyes that seem to say, "I couldn't lose you too."