Alone With My Dad

In the living room, my dad was sitting in the dark. He was wearing his shoes in the house (very exceptional behavior for him). Of his face, I could only see his open eyes through the gloom: they stared blankly into the open space of the room. His shoulders were hunched from elbows propped on his knees, and his hands were held out before him, like he was praying. He wasn't speaking so I don't know if he was or not, but he may have been silently asking for help.

The living room had a baby grand piano in the corner and an old, round, expandable table sitting off to one side. There was a burgundy chair by the door and my dad was sitting in that chair, silently staring. The piano was quiet too, and the table was deserted. I was studying the scene from the floor where I sat leaning against the wall. An over head fan spun just slowly enough to avoid creating any stir in the air, and the only sound came as if through a cave from the street outside as cars cruised by.

My mom contracted pneumonia just after she finished her chemo treatments while her immune system was down. More than ever before, she was fighting for her life. Tubes erupted from her body and machines beeped or clicked. Little sacks of fluid hung like bats waiting for the night. A few hours ago my dad and I had gone to see her. She was weak and scared. It wouldn't be until much later that I would understand the source of her fear, or what she may have been thinking, but I remember reflecting her mood and feeling frightened. I didn't understand the severity of the disease until I saw her face at the hospital.

My dad and I sat in the living room for hours, saying nothing, before I left for my bedroom and sleep. That night I must have dreamt heavily because I awoke early the next morning. It was cold and I didn't want to leave my bed. I clung to the comforting warmth under my covers and wondered how my life might change before I was able to get back under those covers that night. I wondered what my life would look like then. I had never imagined a day where I could wake up with my mom there, and then go to sleep without her. I slipped my feet from under the blankets and lugged myself out of my room and downstairs. My dad was still in the burgundy seat. His hands were still clasped and he was sill staring out into space with tired, fearful eyes. I turned to the door and cupped the black knob. It shook slightly in my hand.