Spot the Difference

I stood on the broken cobblestone outside my childhood home, playing a quiet game of ‘spot the difference.’ The wind slid along the weathered panels; their paint long faded from its fresh coat in July of 2009—when Dad won a gift card to the local paint shop. He pushed me, small and reluctant, up to the highest step of the ladder to lay the first stroke of dusty blue. Mom had sworn off that shade, claiming it reminded her too much of a beach house and that we lived too far from the coast for the seashell-and-waves vision. But dad had a way of being persuasive.

“Come on, Junie,” he’d beg, puffing out his lip in that exaggerated way he always did when he wanted to win Mom over. “Let’s bring the beach home.”

In the way they stood side by side, arguing over the blue hue, it was like they were teenagers in love, sharing a single milkshake with two straws as their cheeks flushed with the same excitement, that same sense of falling for each other all over again. Not only had they found someone to grow old with, but someone to stay young with as well. It was something I always cherished, something I always wished for when I looked up at the stars. And now, it felt like that kind of love had finally found me with Bridget.

She’s an essence only heaven could have conjured up, a vision of beauty and grace. She’s a montage from my favorite movie, the kind that makes you want to freeze every frame, especially the one of my bride gliding down the aisle toward me earlier today.

I look down at my pressed suit, still marked with the tears that fell when Bridget met me at the altar. My gaze drifts back to the house, as if the game of ‘spot the difference’ is still playing in my mind. Most of it, though, has stayed frozen in time—the same crooked steps, the same thorn bushes, the same creak of the porch swing.

A car’s engine rumbles over the hill, and I look up just in time to see Dad and Mom’s old sedan pulling into the driveway, tires screeching on the uneven pavement as they argue over the radio station—just like Bridget and I did moments ago, with “Just Married” scrawled in Mom’s cursive across our back window. We were on our way to the airport for our honeymoon, but somehow, I’ve found myself back here. Back home, watching Dad shimmy around to the passenger side, pulling Mom out into a dipped kiss, her long silk dress almost matching the beachy blue behind them.

“Our boy’s married, Junie,” Dad grinned as he lifted Mom and himself back up.

“He sure is,” Mom smiled, her eyes dazzling in the sunlight. “All grown up too.”

They paused, allowing the moment to stretch over them like strawberry taffy. Just standing there staring at each other, letting their shared years and memories drift between them in waves. It was the kind of telepathy I knew they’d shared since the moment they met in that ancient, worn-down bowling alley. Mom would retell the story every year, laughing until tears dripped down her face, reliving the moment Dad tripped on the tiny step before the lane and dropped the bowling ball right onto his hand, leaving a large shaped egg that she would later ice.

Mom broke the silence.

“The ceremony was beautiful, and Bridget’s dress—God, absolutely stunning.” She waved her hands around her head as if she were blown away by the image. The corners of my lips tugged towards my eyes, and my heart fluttered at the way she spoke of my wife.

“Just as stunning as you,” Dad said, swooping Mom up bridal style.

She tilted her head back, the melody of her laughter reaching my ears.

“Aren’t you so cheesy?”

“At least I still got my moves,” Dad remarked, making his way up those crooked steps toward the house they’d built into a home.

I step forward, almost calling out to them to wait for me, that I’m right behind, but before I can, sirens wail in the distance, closing in on the levity that had consumed me. It pulls me back, that gut-wrenching feeling swallows me whole, and suddenly, my feet feel stuck in quicksand, my knees going weak.

The acid churns in my stomach until bile rises, coating my taste buds as the sirens speed up behind the old, parked sedan. Whatever had struck me now grips Dad, as he sets Mom down gently. Their bewildered eyes lock on the two vehicles that have come to a stop before them. It’s as if the cars are black-feathered crows, their beaks piercing into a carcass laid out under the sun, vulnerable and waiting.

One officer steps out, the other following, and the sound of their footsteps sends my hearing into a ringing haze.

“Mom,” I choke out, my voice ragged, desperate, but she’s unfazed. “Dad?” I try again, but there’s no answer.

When the officer approaches, he lifts his hat in a silent apology. Mom’s raw, guttural scream shatters the stillness as she drops to her knees.

“What happened? What happened to my son?”

I hear the cop’s muffled voice then.

“There’s been a motor vehicle accident…there are no survivors.”

No. Not Bridget too.

Just me. It has to only be me.

Bridget's skin illuminated with joy, and the sun reflected off the white lace of her dress. She spun the volume dial on the dash after winning the choice of station, her smile—one like no other—encompassing her face. I couldn’t help but look over and bask in her beauty. The hum of the car’s bass vibrated my chest as she held out her hand for me to take. We were like young kids, caught in a forbidden love, longing to breathe in each other’s presence and soak it all up until we began to float—carried away, hand in hand after the metal crushed and the glass shattered.

The cops dipped their heads one last time before returning to their cars, leaving Mom and Dad in a nightmare they could have never imagined. Mom wept on the cold stone, while Dad—his stocky frame now a hollow shell of a man—kept his stare fixed on the spot where the officer once stood. Maybe he was in denial of it all, maybe he was replaying the news in his mind, trying to make sense of something that only had its own divine resolution, one that no human eye could ever fully comprehend.

A breeze chilled his skin pulling him out of his trance, and his sight fell to his broken wife. Slowly, he sank to his knees, pulling her close, pressing a soft kiss to Mom’s temple. As he did, the first of a lifelong worth of tears began to streak down his face.

“We lost him, Junie,” his voice broke. “We lost our boy. Now let’s go bring him home.”