Just Breathe

Part Four

The scent of vanilla rushed to meet me as I walked into my room for the first time in four years. I practically bathed in vanilla scented everything back then; but it was a nice touch. I was surprised the scent still lingered in my room, for I had not been in there for years. But it didn't matter that much to me. All I cared about was being home.

I slumped my bag down on the floor beside my mirror as I examined my grey velvet chair that sat close by. It felt weird to be back home, but at the same time I enjoyed the feeling. Nothing changed in here. My bed still had the same newspaper clipping duvet cover, which was opposite from where my chair sat. My closet still hung the same clothes, my shelf still held the same books, the walls still held the same colour—a light purple— along with the same pictures and my dresser still remained standing. My room didn't feel dirty at all, it was very clean; like someone regularly cleaned it. As I swept my fingers along the top of my light wooden dresser, I realized there was also no dust along the top. And no dust stuck to the mirror that was attached to the top of my dresser. I was sort of surprised to see everything still here. I thought my dad would have gotten rid of some things. Or maybe all of it. But everyone is different. Once someone loses a child, some like to keep everything exactly the same, feeling like they are still close and still with them. But others want to get rid of everything that belonged to their child, perhaps everything felt too weird, having their child's belongings but not their child. Perhaps it was too hard for them, being reminded that they are no longer there. Maybe I just thought my father would have been like that; get rid of everything I owned when I was killed. Or when everyone thought I was killed. However I seemed to be wrong, and maybe he enjoyed having my belonging here all the time, surrounding him.

It was just me and my father. My mother passed away in a car accident when I was seven. I still remember every moment. The day my father got a phone call.

***
  He had just picked me up from school that day and we were walking through the back door. I remember how hungry I was when I dropped my bag on the floor and headed towards the refrigerator. My father took off his sunglasses, like he always did after he drove, and put them away in his case, located in the cupboard, right next to all our phone books. My father—whose name is Derrick—asked me what I wanted for supper, for it was my night to pick. That was a routine in our house. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday it was my mothers turn to pick supper. Every Tuesday and Thursday was my turn to pick, and every Saturday and Sunday was my father's turn. It was a Thursday night that evening. And I for one was very excited for the weekend to come. It had begun to get nicer in our town, and nice to us was plus twenty degrees. Our weather wasn't always the greatest. We had a lot of gloomy or rainy days, and sunny days rarely showed up. But the forecast for the upcoming weekend was supposed to be sunny and hot for both days. My parents told me we could go to the beach, and I could invite a friend. I had already asked one of my best friends, Hanna. We had been friends ever since kindergarten, which was by then about two or three years. We were very close, inseparable really. We told each other we would be friends our entire life, and at the time I didn't know it, but that would be the truth. We would still be very close friends for years to come.

  I was just in the middle of my thoughts, thinking about which meal my parents should make that night, until I was interrupted by our home phone ringing close by on the counter. I jumped a bit, but then relaxed. My father went over to the phone and picked it up without a hesitation. Not knowing what he was about to be told would change our lives.

"Hello?" he answered without being bothered or worried at all, but within moments, those feelings would sink in, along with sorrow, grief and heartbreak. My parents loved each other greatly, more than I had ever seen two people love. I know that sounds a bit sappy, but it was the truth. "Yes, this is," he spoke again as his happy face soon turned into confusion. And then, before my eyes, I watched as his expression turned from confusion, to sadness in an instance. And he began to cry.
***