XPLR | Colby Brock

~107~

"Mom!" he called. He wasn't much older than seven, maybe, and he had gorgeous curly brown hair and blue eyes. He's a cute little kid. But my eyes still frantically searched for my father. Is this his new son, is he hitting this kid too? Where's his mother? Don't tell me the kid is alone...

A woman came around the corner from the kitchen, wiping her hands. She must be making dinner for her family. For a moment, I thought she was my mother. In all her glory. She touched her son's hair. "Hi, can I help you?" she asked.

I fought the urge to look around the house behind her, that's rude. That's so rude. God, Rose, calm down. Calm down.

"I'm looking for someone named Lars Romano? He's my father, I've been away at college for two years. I need to talk to him, this is his house. I grew up here," I said, putting my hands in my hoodie pocket, rubbing them to try and ease my nerves.

The woman stared at me for a moment, placing her hands on her son's shoulder. Her bottom lip quivered, like she wanted to say something but she didn't know how.

"Oh, sweetheart," she said softly, timidly. Almost like she felt bad for me. "What? What, did something happen?" I asked.

I didn't mean to sound so demanding.

She stood aside and let me in, shutting the door behind me. I couldn't help but look around now. "Would you like something to drink? I'm making tea," she said as she brought me and her son to the dining room. I ate alone here so many times. I sat down in my old seat, and I looked around at the chipping paint. I looked over my shoulder, into the living room, and I felt like I could see my father passed out in his recliner, with something like Saturday Night: Live playing in the background.

It brought tears to my eyes.

"Tea would be nice," I had answered, and she was just now giving me tea sweetened with sweet n' low. I took a sip, immediately. She sat down next to me, and she took my hand. "Sweetheart," she started, "You didn't get a call?"

I shook my head. "Did he sale this place to you?" I asked. She shook her head a bit, and she looked to her son. "Rudy, son, go to your room and watch some cartoons, alright?" she asked. He nodded, and he took his drink and headed upstairs.

She took both of my hands, and she gave me the kindest, most motherly look I've ever seen. "What's your name, darling?" she asked. "Rose. Rose Romano," I said.

"Rose, your father passed away of liver failure a year ago," she said, "His house was put up for auction by the bank because he didn't have a will."

I suddenly felt tears come to my eyes, and I couldn't stop them. "No," I said. "No, what do you mean, he died?" I asked.

I don't know why I was suddenly crying. Was I crying because I was angry over my stupid apology? No, that's not it. I don't know. I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.

But dammit, I'm so tired of not knowing! I'm so tired of not knowing what to feel or how to feel, or why people do what they did, I just wish someone would sit down with me and just tell me what to do.

I'm so damn tired of feeling alone!

All I've ever been is alone, ever since my mother died. She always had my back, she loved me so much. She promised me, she promised me from the time I was born that I would never ever be alone. Mom, it's been five years without you, why did you lie to me?

I was crying for so many reasons now.

"I'm sorry," the woman said, just as she came towards me and she wrapped her arms around neck, and the side of my face leaned against her breasts. She was good at this, and it comforted me.

But I didn't stop crying.

I just cried.

And cried.

And cried.

But the sweet, selfless woman didn't mind at all.

It wasn't until her son, Rudy, came down stairs and tugged at her shirt. "Momma," he said. He pointed to a door, what I recognized as the basement door. She nodded, and she pulled me away a little bit. Her hands firmly held my shoulders, and she squeezed them comfortingly. "His things are in the basement. Feel free to take a look," she said. She must've known her smile was useless, but she didn't seem to mind. She knew she couldn't do any better.

I stood up, I felt like a marionette, I felt like some other being was controlling me. I walked towards the basement door, when I was a child, I used to hide down there, and I opened it and looked down. My hands subconsciously went to the light switch, and I flicked it on. I head down towards the bottom floor.

I found boxes upon boxes, all marked with the word Lars. I wonder who did all of this, it's not like my father had many friends. I was his only family, as he was mine.

I opened a smaller box on the top, and I found a bunch of pictures. All the ones I left behind. No matter how much I tried, I couldn't remember my mother's face as much as I wanted to. I found VHS tapes as well. I'm glad whoever packed this stuff away thought it smart to organize it. There was a picture of all three of us: My mother, my father, and me. On my twelfth birthday. When I got the keyboard I still practice on today.

I smiled at it, but then I shuttered with tears.

I'm completely alone now.

I was always alone, but part of me... part of me always hoped for a real relationship with my father.

I moved onto the next picture, it was hard to see for a moment, since my eyes were blurry with tears.

It wasn't a picture at all.

It was paper, it was an envelope.

Rosie.

Addressed with a single nickname, the one he called me, when things were good.