The Day My Dad Died

Hello. My name is Billy Adams. And while I was grieving for the death of a good friend of mine, who killed himself a few months back due to circumstances I can relate too, I got news my father died. It took me several days to understand what that meant. What those words meant. A familiar tender voice, spoken through a plastic device held to my ear, mentioned, “Your father has passed away.” Passed away? What the fuck is that? That’s what people say when they feel too uncomfortable to use the words died, or dead. Some people say passed on. What the fuck is that shit as well? Passed on? It’s like they know where the deceased is going. They don’t know where they’re going. So I don’t know why they pretend to know. Is it just to make themselves feel better for not knowing? Well either way, he died. My dad, that is. Well both of them. They are gone. Just like that.

This specific day was cool, calm and collected. A tiny chilled breeze snuck up on me like a ten year old child with a hand full of dead dried leaves from the old oak that lives outside your house. Luckily the scarf that was wrapped around my neck blocked the air and danced with it for a second until the breeze decided to venture onward down the street. The streets resemblance to a Midwestern town was uncanny. You know, the kind of town that has the houses sitting right next to one other. Where larger trees are rooted side by side single file, as if they were all holding hands. Each home had it’s own retaining wall just placed just passed their front yard. Some of them were made with reddish orange bricks weathered by the elements, securing the dead lawn in place. Where each front yard, on both sides of the street, had their own picket fences marking their plot of land. The thought of that made me smirk. People and their possessions. Those fences mark their personal divisions of their small personal empire. Right below the retaining wall, where the steps dump onto the cities property, there is a sidewalk. The cities sidewalk. The city tends to that part of their personal empire. Well, sometimes the trees decide the sidewalks fate. Sometimes, the trees veins breakup the sidewalk by elevating some of the concrete. Cracking it up. Most of the trees on the street level are closer to the avenue for cars, just passed the sidewalk. Sometimes, however, I didn’t walk on the sidewalk. I liked to stroll just passed the trees. Off the curb, onto the street. I like to see the trees changing colors. Especially that time of year. If I had it my way I would pull up a chair and sit in the middle of the street and literally watch the leaves changing colors over time. And of course, I would be drinking whiskey. So the aspect of time wouldn’t bother me so much. However, walking in the middle of the street is the best venture to goggle at the scenery. The view is so symmetrical and colorful. Each color, of each leaf, of each tree branched out over the street creating a scintillating canopy. I closed my eyes and heard the poetic words from Shel Silverstein. I opened my eyes and saw his poems everywhere. It was almost as if my eyes were translating the physical matter into script, as if my eyes rendered all living entities and lifeless objects into typography. It’s a little ironic, though, that my dad and my good friend died so close to this season Fall. Everything seemed to be dying…

It wasn’t until I reached the house my dad built, at the very end of Mulberry Lane off of Lincoln Avenue which intersected with Vann Avenue, in which case I realized how painful it was my father he was now gone. I didn’t even talk to him for several years. It must have been over ten years. But there were so many unanswered questions that made the despair a viable feeling. Which I think I wouldn’t usually feel. I mean if someone I knew had someone “pass on” I probably wouldn’t feel much. Well possibly for the person who was dealing with the loss. Well, possibly not. The house was built like Noah’s Ark, which they apparently found in Turkey on top of Mount Ararat. It had three floors, a basement, and main living level with an attic that was converted into living quarters. It was long and tall. The house slept on the corner of Vann Avenue and Mulberry. The address, 3318 Mulberry Street, was fitting due to the Mulberry tree which took it’s place in the center of the yard. The yard wrapped around the house like the shape of the consonant alphabet letter, L. As I got closer to the house I stood in the middle of the street. I just looked at the landscape and the home itself. The street was overly dry. The air had an ora like that of a crisp stalk of celery. As sharp as an edge of a long blade. With most of the trees and their leaves turning orange, yellow, red and even pink there was a single tree that was still green. This tree made its home just passed our old yard next to a walkway going to our neighbors shed. It’s an evergreen tree my Dad called Shirley. I remember him making a joke about how green it was in January, with snow outside. He said, “It’s still surely green.” So the name stuck. I closed my eyes. I heard screams of kids playing from long ago. I smelt the roses my mother use to keep up. To this day, she has such a powerful green thumb. I felt the breeze catching up with me once more. This time it hung around for a little longer. Twirling together with my scarf and my hair for longer than I had expected and even wanted. I could feel my ears turning red.

1992 – Fall. The wind howled outside our bedroom window. Since we, my brothers and I, lived upstairs we heard everything. Well, whenever we were together. And when I say everything, I mean everything. From the noises outside our house… The owl that made it’s home in that old oak tree that lived in our neighbor’s front yard. The squirrels that used our roof as a way to get from one tree to another. The wind that relentlessly tested our windows. To the noises from inside our house… My mom and dads laughs. My sister on the phone with her friends. The television being watched by my oldest brother. He usually watched ESPN; he liked what Chris Berman had to say about his Miami Dolphins. But, Mr. Berman was never right about them. I’d lay awake, looking up at the ceiling through the darkness. Life didn’t seem bad.

1996 – Fall. The wind howled outside our bedroom window. Since we, my brother and I, lived upstairs we heard everything. Well, whenever we were together. And when I say everything, I mean everything. From the noises outside our house… The owl that occasionally stopped by, from his new apartment, in that old oak tree that lived in our neighbors front yard. The squirrels that used our roof as a resting place when traveling from one tree to another. The wind that relentlessly inspected our windows. To the noises from inside our house… My mom and dads quarrels. My sister on the phone with her boyfriend. The television being watched by my oldest brother. He usually watched ESPN; he liked what Stuart Scott had to say about his Miami Dolphins. But, Mr. Scott was never right about them. I’d lay awake, looking up at the ceiling through the darkness. Life didn’t seem that bad.

2000 – Fall. The wind howled outside our bedroom window. Since I lived upstairs I heard everything. And when I say everything, I mean everything. From the noises outside our house… The owl who lived a couple blocks away in that old oak tree in front of your house. The squirrels who used our roof once in a while to get to one tree to another. The wind that relentlessly pried at our windows. The noises from inside our house… My mom and dads fights. My sister on the phone with her ex-boyfriend. I’d lay awake, looking up at the ceiling through the darkness. Life, just, seemed…

2004 – Fall. The wind howled outside my old bedroom window. I think the house was auctioned off to the Murphey’s who bought it from the bank for half of what it was worth.

Now, standing outside that house, I don’t even think the Murphey’s live there any longer. That same wind, dancing with my scarf, also knocked on the front door hoping to find my father answer. Well, at least that’s what I thought the wind was trying to find. Maybe I hoped to see him walk out the front door, onto our old screened in patio, out onto our old sidewalk to pick up the paper he asked me to get. Maybe I stood there for too long. Just maybe I did.

While deep in those thoughts a vehicle pulled up behind me. Stopping almost four feet from behind my back. Perfectly aligning the driver’s window with where I was standing. I knew how the car was stopped due to the music I heard playing on the radio. The music was muffled coming from the cracked window of the vehicle. I slowly turned my head and there was my brother. We stared at each other for what seemed like an entire game of Russian roulette.

I was shot by my brother’s silence breaking words. “Get in…”

As I walked around the front of my brother’s 1983 Chevy pick up truck I noticed how dirty it was. It almost looked like he had never washed it. While walking I had some time to think about what I was going to say to my brother, who was the second oldest. He was younger than my other brother, Keith, by two and half years. I couldn’t think of anything to say. As I made it around the front to the front right side of his truck I noticed someone wrote wash me on the passenger side window. It must have been a little person who scribbled the letters. I couldn’t ascertain if my oldest brothers daughter, Sarah, wrote it or not. I would have guessed that if I had to put money on it. I don’t think it was written by this brother’s son. My brother’s name is Clint. My mom likes to tell the story of why she named him that. The story is not that great to tell you the truth. Basically, she named him after Clint Eastwood. My brother’s son, however, is only eight and I don’t think he could reach to that elevation to write that visibly. I have seen several photographs and Ziggy, which is his nickname. His real name is Zander, he looks just like Clint. It’s astonishing how much he looks like brother. Even though he is half Jamaican and half Caucasian they look identical when my brother was eight years old. But in my opinion, he’s going to grow up to be better looking than my brother; well that’s what they say about mulatto people anyway. I reached for the door handle and tried to open it. I couldn’t. I thought to myself my brother is such a dick. Why couldn’t he just unlock the door for me when I was walking around his truck? As I was thinking that he reached over and unlocked it. Once I got in my brother asked me, “How are you?” His question sounded just like bad breaks screeching as the metal rubs together. He didn’t even look at me when he asked me. He was looking straight out the front windshield window. I sat down and said, “Fine.” I too, was just looking out the front window. The time we sat there in silence seemed like hours. But I’m sure it was only a few moments. The inside of his truck was just as dirty. I felt like I was sitting on an ant farm. Speaking of which, my brother is a farmer. He makes his money growing and selling corn. I don’t understand why he settled doing that, I can remember when we were younger he said he could never be a farmer. Either way the silence was killing me. Right before I was about to say something to him, he started driving. It was almost like he wanted me to say something else to him.

As we drove through my old town, it felt like we were moving in slow motion. The silence didn’t help. All the memories I saw in the form of street names, buildings, spaces within the city, even old billboards that were still the same as when I lived there made the slow motion feeling even more nostalgic than my original feelings. As I was about to communicate the next thought I was thinking to my brother he turned on the radio. A song was playing called Maybe by The Ink Spots. I closed my eyes and I was taken back to a moment in our old house where my Mom and Dad were dancing in the kitchen as us kids were watching them from the dining room dinner table. I could see my sisters smiling face under her baby blue eyes. I can see her chuckling as she peered over at them through her smile. I didn’t chuckle, I just looked on with a feeling I wish I still had. “Do you know if Adam is town?” My brother asked interrupting my memory and the song. I looked over at him and just shook my head. He looked back at the road and kept driving. I looked out the dirty passenger window only to see the State Hospital’s giant lawn with several patients wearing white pants and white shirts walking about.

After some time meandering through the city my brother finally parked his filthy truck facing away from my sisters house. Across the street from her house there is a gravel filled parking lot, which her ex boyfriend had made for guests. That’s exactly where my brother decided to stop. He pulled the emergency brake out and put his truck in first gear. I opened the door and stepped out. I felt just as dirty as his truck. He didn’t care; he was wearing a pair of Carhartt overalls. They were dark tan and hideous looking. I shut the door to his truck after which I leaned up against the bed. I reached into my breast pocket of my coat and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Don’t smoke in front of my kids, Bill.” He used to call me Bill whenever he was angry with me. “Okay.” I replied then pulled out a cigarette from my pack and lit it with a black lighter I stashed in a small pocket on the right side of my black jeans. A bellow of smoke swirled up and around together with the now strikingly colder air. The sun was setting. It was officially dusk. While my smoke was having a grand time getting tangled up with the wind I was looking out over a dormant cornfield. There were six or seven deer watching me as closely as they could have. They were still a mile or so away, but they were just standing there, watching. On the left side of the cornfield it butted up with a forest of River Birch Trees. These specific kind of trees have white bark covering over their trunks. And during this time of year their leaves turn a yellowish orange color. With the trees against the sky, the columns from the sleeping cornfield and the deer still watching me it looked like a Karen F. Rose oil painting. I inhaled yet another drag from my cigarette and flicked some ash onto the gravel and all its shades of gray. I almost didn’t want to look away.

“Billy!” I heard my name being vigorously expelled from a female’s voice that I was all too familiar with. I turned my head only to find my sister charging up to me. She was wearing something she would usually be wearing. Blue jeans. A fashionable jacket. And on her head she was wearing a knitted beanie I bought for her about six years prior. It was baby blue. She loved that color. Right before she collided into me I rolled out the cherry of my cigarette onto the gray matter beneath me. Then I flicked the cigarette butt into the bed of my brother’s truck. She was almost running full speed when she embraced me. I felt like crying. I held her for almost two minutes. I don’t think her feet were touching the ground. I swayed her back and forth very slowly. Breathing very heavy in and out, trying to avoid shedding tears onto her jacket. I finally pulled away to see her looking at me through her usual smile. I kissed her cheek.

After which I whispered to her, “Hello kiddo.”

She was just smiling at me. I almost wanted to ask her to stop her smiling. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

The only thing she said was, coupled with a head nod, “Come!”

My sister was the most important person in my life, I’d say. We were always so close. Even when we didn’t seem like we were close at all. I watched her walking towards the house her and her ex-boyfriend had bought together. I turned my head to see if the deer were still watching me. They were. I stayed there staring at them until my sister called me once again. I turned in for the house.

Before I crossed the threshold I stopped to look at a sign that was made out of wood, paint and an extreme amount of lacquer. It read, “Welcome home! From Michelle and Brennan.” I shook my head a little. I hate that Brennan guy. He’s the only person I hate. But that’s another story. I stepped in, through the doorway, and my sister took my scarf and my pea coat. She walked it over to the right of where we had just walked in and hung it up on a couple of hooks that were screwed into the wood paneling. I said something to her about how the paneling looked good. She didn’t even respond. I knew she heard me.

She just smiled at me and said, “Mom is in the kitchen.”

I looked right through her smile and softly uttered, “I know. I saw her. But I don’t think she saw me.”

“Come on.” She nodded with her head again as she said that and I watched her turn her shoulders to walk around the corner.

“Michelle!” I urgently reached out and grabbed her arm.

“What?!” The look of confusion and concern blanketed her face.

I stumbled with my words a little, “I need to go, no, I mean I would like to use the bathroom. Where is it?”

She pointed over her left shoulder up the stairs. At the top of the stairs there was a mirror my mom had made when we were just kids.

I knew she wasn’t pointed at it. But I smiled at her and said, “You still have mom’s mirror?” She hugged me. Turned away to walk into the living room as she mentioned, “Dinner will be ready in ten or so.” The living room was full of familiar and unfamiliar faces.

I looked up the stairs. The stairs were covered in burgundy carpet, which needed to be vacuumed. And on the left side of the stairwell there was a railing, which looked like it was dunked in tar. It was the most black, shiny, goopy looking thing I have ever seen. I didn’t even want to touch it for fear I would just stick to it. I stepped on each step with just as much enthusiasm as the conversation my brother and I had. When I reached the top of the stairs there was a room on the right that had a nightlight plugged into an outlet just right of a medicine cabinet mirror. The nightlight was flickering like a candle. It was interesting. I turned the light on anyway. I didn’t have to take a piss or anything else. I just wanted to wash up so my mom didn’t smell the cigarettes on me. I washed my hands and rinsed off my face. Once I was dry I planted my two hands on the bathroom counter top, which was made with ceramics, and stared at myself in the mirror. Out of all my brothers and I, the majority of folks said I looked like my dad. And it wasn’t like I had only heard that a few times. I would put money on it, if I had a way to remember every time I saw someone who knew me from when I was younger and saw me for the first time in a long time, and bet almost 90% of all the fuckers said I looked just like my dad. And then they would say, “You know that?” Sometimes, I would look at them with a straight face and tell them no one has ever said that to me. I was getting ready for some more of that shit, even more so, now. I can’t really be upset about it, they don’t really know. But whatever.

I walked down the stairs and turned the corner and stopped. My mom was standing in the kitchen, down the hallway, leaning up against the kitchen counter top. She hadn’t noticed me yet. She was having a deep conversation, from what it looked like, with one of her best friends who I knew very well. My mom looked old. I hadn’t seen her in almost a year. She was wearing something she would usually be wearing. Blue jeans. A fashionable coat, which was made with orange corduroy cloth. Her hair was mostly gray. With highlights of blonde and brown streaking throughout the body. I think she still dyed her hair so it would draw attention away from the gray, but I liked her hair gray. She looked beautiful. I started walking towards her when she looked up and saw me. She stopped talking to her friend, Kim Sanders, and just fixed eyes on me. By this time Kim realized who was coming. She turned her head and looked at me as well. The hallway seemed so damn long. I was only fifteen feet from them, but the walk was unending. As I got closer I could tell my mom had tears in her eyes. Those tears forced me speed up my pace. As I entered the kitchen I didn’t even acknowledge anyone else in the room, which to my surprise was about eight other people. I walked right up to my mother and hugged her. She started to sob.

Sitting on a bench on the back porch I noticed the sun had already set but there was still an orange hue laced through the trees. Every couple seconds or so a firefly would flash their light. There had to be thousands of them. It was beautiful. That’s probably the reason my mom and I just sat there in silence. It wasn’t awkward. It was, peaceful.

I finally looked over at her. She was sitting on a rocking chair my dad had made. “How are you mum?” I asked. As the first couple words were muffled by my hoarse voice.

“You really need to quit smoking.” She said as she was looking through the trees. She finally turned and looked at me. “I don’t want to outlive you.”

“You wont.” I carelessly responded.

“Who are you seeing?” She asked.

I turned my head to try to see through the trees…

I woke up next to my girlfriend. She was still sound asleep. It was just past three thirty in the morning. The constant water drop explosions on our windowsill were comforting. I looked over at my girlfriend. I cracked a smile. She usually slept with just a shirt on. Sometimes she didn’t wear anything at all except the covers. I leaned over and kissed her forehead. I slipped out of bed. Slipped on my slippers. The wood floor in my apartment was icy cold. I could feel the temperature from lying in bed. The slippers were a little cool on the inside. For some reason I was sleeping in my jeans and a t-shirt. It was probably due to the amount of whiskey I had as I was working the night before. I strolled into the kitchen lighting my way with my cell phone. Opened the refrigerator door and saw my choices limited to orange juice, water from one of those Britta filters, while milk, some berry juice my girlfriend loves to drink and some SunnyD. Needless to say, I walked around the corner to hutch that stood 8 feet tall. I opened the glass paned door. Grabbed one of the bottles of whiskey and a rocks glass. Walked back into the kitchen to fill up the rocks glass with ice and the whiskey. After my glass was full I walked over to my desk which had a dictionary, some pens and pencils in a ceramic mug, a typewriter, a calendar under some glass which was the top of the desk and a few photographs of the close ones in my family.

The smell made it more of a memory than anything else. I can’t really explain it. I guess if one hundred years smelt like anything in particular it smelt just like this. The building was dedicated to the troops of the Continental army during the Revolutionary War. It embodied the Ora of its name. Washington Middle School. Evansville, Indiana. The uniforms for physical education were ridiculous. All the kids looked extremely uncomfortable. Luckily, I didn’t have to wear the uniforms due to my being a new student and all. I’m not sure if our gym teacher was going to order me a pair or if he was going to just keep me in suspense regarding when I was going to get it. Either way, I didn’t mind. I didn’t have to wear the uniform, for right now, and I didn’t have to participate. I was getting credit. That’s all that I cared about.

As my ears were riddled with the sounds of basketballs being bounced on a hardwood floor and some sporadic yelling I was looking out the window as our town was being dumped on with large snowflakes. I remember thinking to myself how big the flakes were. I also remember thinking to myself they would probably let us out of school early due to the snow. As I was thinking that, actually, our P.E. teacher blew his famous whistle. It was amazing how the silence could be felt in that ginormous gymnasium. He waited a few moments to speak. Once he did, I was shocked to see and hear so many smiles, cheers and laughs. School was dismissed.

My mom still looked old. I told her how beautiful she was. She looked over at me and smiled.
“You still haven’t answered my question…” She said with an inquisitive tone I haven’t heard from her in a long time.
“I’m going to quit smoking soon.” I said trying to change the direction of the conversation.
She turned her heard and stared through the trees into the darkness with disappearing lightning bugs. Mom was smiling, but I could tell something else besides my dad’s death was on her mind.
In order for a distraction from the current topic she was contemplating, I opened my mouth and lazily mentioned, “Her name is Grace.”
“Oh really?” She asked me smiling from ear to ear. It worked. She was completely focused on the fact that this girl I was seeing was named Grace. Like her name was some kind of winning lottery numbers.
“Yes.” I said smiling back at her. “She’s a doctor of science. She loves the arts. And more than that, me.”
“That’s good.” Said her smile. “You only find that a few times in your lifetime.” I know she was only saying that because my dad was now dead.
I stood from my chair and walked over to her and keeled at her feet and wrapped my arms around her neck. I held my mom until she was crying. I held my mom until she didn’t have anymore tears to cry.
“Do you want a drink?” I asked her.
“I thought you would have never asked…” If you have ever seen someone move out of the way of a bee hovering over someone that doesn’t like bees then you know how fast I went inside my sister’s house to fix us a cocktail.

The only problem with school being let out early was I didn’t have a ride home. After all, I was the new kid. And I didn’t have any money to call home. Outside there was already a foot of snow. I remember walking by a couple teachers talking about how this was going to be the worst snowstorm we were going to have in years. As I was about to walk into the office, this kid, this kid named Jon Watson got my attention.
“Do you need a quarter to call your parents to come and get you?” He asked me.
I wasn’t thinking about his question longer than the sentence was. I started to wonder if he was Jon or Brad. I had both of them in some classes, but the problem was they were twins.
Without much hesitation after his proposal, or question was asked of me, I told him, “That would be great.”
He flicked me a quarter, which flipped up in the air about a thousand times I’d bet. I thought to myself how funny it would be to just keep looking at Jon and disregard the flipped quarter. Watch it land. And keep my hand held out. But then I thought that would probably be pretty dumb considering I was the new kid and all. So I jumped up and snagged it from the air.
“Nice catch!” Jon said in an impressed kind of manner. I thought it was pretty normal. After all I didn’t want it to hit the ground and potentially roll away and get lost.
After Jon said that I saw him making his way down the hall talking to all the cool kids. I thought to myself how nice it must be to be a twin brother. I walked over to the payphone that was attached to the glossy painted white brick wall. I inserted the quarter and dialed my house phone number. (812) 459-5447.
My dad answered, “Hello?”
“Hey Dad, it’s me Billy. They are letting us out of school because of the snow.” I was worried he wasn’t going to believe me.
“I know Son; I was waiting for your call. I’ll be on my way shortly.” I was excited to see my dad actually. I knew that it mean some Hardee’s. He always took me to Hardee’s when he picked me up from school. Which was very seldom, I usually walked home from school.
My dad was about thirty minutes from making it to my school. And I was about thirty minutes from becoming so soaked by snow and sweat throwing snowballs at all the kids out front of the school. The school looked like an old prison. Dark red bricks lined the building up to the top. With two, larger than normal, white pillars which some stairs and a walkway to the front door separated. When I saw my dad’s truck pull up and went and grabbed my backpack, which the bottom of it was completely soaked from sitting in the snow. I jumped in his truck and smiled at me and called me sport. He usually didn’t call me anything other than Son, so it was a nice change up. I also knew that he was in a good mood and we were most definitely going to Hardee’s. We spent the afternoon together. The conversation we had I’ll keep to myself. It was pretty damn special.

“Hey, are you coming back to bed?” My girlfriend was standing in the hall’s doorway, which lead to our bedroom. She looked tired and worried.
“Yeah, I’ll be there in a few.” I said to her with a smile that I knew she wasn’t able to see due to her bad eyesight. “I love you for checking on me though.”
She walked over and kissed me on my forehead and walked back down that hallway and disappeared into our room. I turned and looked at the clock that was hanging above my desk, it was almost six O’clock.

There were only nine of us standing on the wet grass overlooking stone’s placed over where a caskets once hovered over. My oldest brothers, and his wife, were standing directly across from me. I watched them as the evangelical preacher spoke about my dad and the afterlife. My brother looked up at me. He winked with his right eye and then looked away. My sister was wearing a black dress with black shiny stripes. Besides the occasion she looked like she was going to a cocktail party or something. My farming brother was wearing a black suit topped off with a bow tie. He was also wearing cowboy boots. He was holding his Son very close to him. I could tell he was feeling the pain I felt when I was standing outside our old house on Mulberry street and when he came to pick me up. My mom was holding onto my right arm. She was holding onto a white handkerchief with BA embroidered on it. Every once in a while she would raise it to her nose and wipe away the tear drops. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even hear half of what the preacher had said. All I know is I was confused by how my father had died. I wasn’t really sure anyone honestly knew what the actual cause of death was. While I was thinking that I heard the preacher ask if anyone had something to say. I didn’t think anyone did. But my eldest brother, Keith, said that he did. What he said next was something I didn’t think I would have ever heard from my brother.

As I sat there at my desk I thought. I sat there in my office leather chair and kept looking down. I didn’t know what to do next. I didn’t know how to feel about that day, the day my dad died.

“There have been men I’ve known,” my brother said courageously, “and there have been men I didn’t know. My dad was the latter. I don’t think anyone really knew my father. In all honesty, I hope no one ever did. The things he did to others, the things he said to those whom he said he loved, they drove people away from him. He died alone. He died holding onto something that wasn’t there.” I couldn’t help but to think that everyone dies alone. But I knew what he meant by saying that he died alone. The wind wasn’t swirling any longer. It was just cold. The trees seemed to have dropped all their leaves the night before. And air, being so calm and lazy, was still cold enough to make my ears turn red. I could feel them changing colors. I will never forget that day, especially how…

“Blake, it’s a little after eight. I have to go to work.” My girlfriend said to me as she was putting on some high heels. I was sitting at my desk in front of a typewriter that was smoking at this point due to excessive use. I could smell the ink drying. The light resting on my desk shone down on my typed letters, words, sentences and paragraphs. I still didn’t know how to end the story. One thing I did know was what it might feel like to lose your father. Either way, this story is going to be great. By this time my girlfriend had slid her way right up behind me and kissed my neck, “You can finish writing your story when you get home.”

Written by Blake Byers


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