Raindrops ~ Short-story

by - 1:32 PM

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.



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1 people are talking about this

  1. 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.
    Thank you so so so much for writing it. <3

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