Raindrops ~ Short-story
Raindrops
in puddles and puddles in seas;
Gales
are winds, and the wind is a breeze;
Raindrops
and teardrops are sweet and sour;
Seeds
and sprouts and buds that flower;
Letters
makes words and words make stories
Stories
are lives and lives are histories.
Sizes,
shapes and times all move
And
change forever. But not love.
~
N. T. Williamson
That
was the last poem my Dad wrote, though he didn’t exactly finish it.
When I found him at his desk, he still had the pen in his hand right
after the word ‘But’ on that last line. After they took him away,
I wrote the last two words. I’m pretty sure that’s what he meant
to write, if he’d had the time . . .
It’s
kinda scary how you can just be living your normal life one second,
and then the next you realize you can’t see the road ahead of you
anymore. My Dad was my light. He was the way I saw where to go and
what to do. Now he’s gone. I don’t think I’ve really realized
it yet.
My
Dad was a poet and a writer. He said that someday, I might be one
too. We used to write poems together and tell stories. When I found
him, I was coming to show him a new poem I had started writing:
Tales
are for telling
And
stories can store
For
decades and ages
And
eons and more.
Myths
are not missed
Nor
fables forgot
For
people love stories
----------------
After
that, I couldn’t seem to figure out anything really good for the
last line. I was hoping Dad could help me. I was not expecting to
find him dead.
The
doctors just told Grandma Alice something. Now she’s rolling down
the hall in her wheelchair. I look up, but looking doesn’t mean I
see anything. It’s all too white. Isn’t death supposed to be
black? I don’t understand . . .
“Lina,”
Grandma Alice says, taking my hand in her old, soft, wrinkled one. I
nod slowly.
“He
had a clot in his brain,” she says softly, “No pain.”
“Like
falling asleep really fast,” I murmur.
“Yes,
like that,” she says.
For
a split-second all I want to do is break down in tears. I can feel
them burning underneath my eye-lids, but the feeling goes away as
fast as it came, and I forget that I am supposed to cry. I mean, my
Dad just died.
Isn’t crying like the next step? I’m not sure anymore.
I
stand up, and stepping behind Grandma’s wheelchair, push it towards
the door. Something just tells me we need to go home now. Not that
home is home without Dad, but Benny and Jake haven’t had supper
yet, and I was going to make mac’n’cheese.
“C’mon
guys,” I say. Benny and Jake peel themselves off of the waiting
bench and troop behind me to the door. We’re going to have to get a
ride, since Grandma can’t drive and I’m not old enough yet.
Twenty
minutes later, Mr. Alcott – our neighbor – brings the van and we
all help Grandma inside.
The
drive home seems to take a long time, even though we only live about
ten miles from the hospital. Maybe time just gets slow when your
brain won’t work – mine sure isn’t. Up in the passenger-side
seat I am sitting; Grandma’s in the back with the boys. As if from
really, really far away I can hear Jake sobbing and Benny sniffing.
Grandma’s voice is harder to hear, but I think she’s saying
something about how everything is going to be all right. Adults
always say that.
All
right. I can’t seem
to think straight, so maybe I’ll just concentrate on that. Let’s
see, ‘all’ would be us – Grandma, Jake, Benny and me. And then
‘right’ . . . is that supposed to mean not left? The thought
makes me want to punch something. Stupid brain making jokes. ‘Right’
means ‘well’ or ‘great’ or even ‘best’. Everything’s
going to be ‘all right’, translation: Everything
is going to be us well. And
‘well’ means not to be sick, right?
But
Dad was sick – that’s why he died. Oh, I know, it wasn’t like a
really long cancer sick, or even just a heart-attack sick where you
realize you’re dying just soon enough to say “Dear God, take care
of my kids!” It was even faster than that. I’ll bet Dad didn’t
even realize he was dying . . .
Why
does that make me mad? I know he cared, but . . . no, I’m just mad
because I’m a kid and I don’t get things like this so it scares
me. Just forget about it. I don’t need to be mad, I need to be
‘right’. I need to be strong enough to help Grandma and the boys
through this. Maybe I’ll cry someday.
I
hope Dad isn’t crying up in Heaven. Dear God, make him happy, and
tell him that I’m going to take care of the kids. There’s nothing
to worry about. Everything’s going to be all right.
As
I look out the front wind-shield and watch the raindrops slither up
the glass like little clear worms, I remember Dad’s poem again. He
was writing about raindrops when he died, wasn’t he?
No,
that’s not right. He was using
raindrops as a
metaphor, but he was writing about something else.
Love.
Dad loved to write about love. I think it’s because he had so much
love for all of us. Love for Grandma, love for Jake, for Benny, for
Mom before she died . . . for me. Dad loved me – I remember how
much he loved to say that he loved me. He even wrote me a poem. I
can’t remember it now, but I can remember the poem I wrote in
response to his. It was the first poem I ever wrote – I must have
been like four:
“Daddy,
I love you
And
you love me.
Daddy
I love you
It
makes me happy.
Daddy,
I love you
And
you love me too
Daddy,
I love you
I
love you, I love you.”
What?
More raindrops? How did they get in the car? Down my face the hot
little worms slither, some of them slipping into my mouth. They’re
salty. Something shakes me, like when Dad would pick me up to give me
a hug. Another shake. More salty raindrops.
“Daddy,
I love you,” I whisper. I know it now – the raindrops are tears
and these shakes are sobs. Why didn’t I cry when I lost him? Why am
I crying because I love him? I love him, I love him, I love him . . .
“Daddy,
I love you,” I whisper again. I wish I could have said it to him
again before he died. I love him. Oh, Daddy, I love you so much.
“Daddy,
I love you
But
now it’s goodbye
Oh,
Daddy, I love you
And
it makes me cry.
Daddy,
I love you
I
miss you so much.
Daddy,
I love you
I
love you so much.”
I
don’t realize I am singing it until Benny and Jake’s voices join
in. Then Grandma’s. We’re all crying now.
All
I can wonder is why death doesn’t hurt, but love does.
1 people are talking about this
I'm on the verge of tears, but this....this is exactly what it is like, all wrapped up in the words I couldn't find when it happened to me. That last line is absolutely beautiful and perfect, and I simply can't express how much this story means to me.
ReplyDeleteThank you so so so much for writing it. <3