I look at my dad in the front seat, prepared to hear him cry, even though it horrifies me. And then, I look at my reflection, waiting to see me at least sob.
A weird chill wraps my inner beings and hangs my heart in a cold string despite the hot Sunday reins in the present. We arrive at the house, and quick, light steps on my tiptoes carry me upstairs. I step into the main room, glancing at the walls in which my childhood seems to print on and then to the peaceful body lying down in the hospital bed they made room for in the chamber.
Just by seeing his now yellow skin, his grey moles, a weird smell came into my nose, a scent that shouted the defeat of a big hero, that cried out something that I had only read in his eyes the day before: "I'm doomed, I lost this fight." Mami was caressing his face with pity, tiding his wine-red button-down shirt, over and over. The air was dry, like my mouth; I was thirsty.
Suddenly, eucalyptus and peppermint filled the atmosphere, and my aunties prayers filled my ears. I stepped closer to the body, "Only death could make him this calm," I thought. I could hear my dad's feet on the back, fraying and forcing a weak strength, trying to take care of mundane things like funerals. My hand ran through his brown, silky, soft hair. I wanted him to open his eyes. "Wake up," my tears yearn for the time to go back. "I miss you," I swore I could see him breathing, even though I know it wasn't true.
YOU ARE READING
I wish you were telling this story
Short StoryThis a story about ordinary people and ordinary events, and how all of us have a little story to tell, and how we must write it by ourselves. After her brother's death, 20-year-old Ariel Thompsons lost track of where she was going. Her parents wrote...
