You Were Dead

You were dead.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. My cookie-cutter world, the life I carefully constructed after you left, was unceremoniously destroyed in one message. Just like that, it crumbled into a suffocating dust. I clawed at my throat, gasping, reaching for oxygen. It was as if an invisible hand was strangling me from the inside. 

“I am back in the area. Please call me.” I read the message over and over again, each time my heart beating a little faster, my chest aching.

It had been a long time, seven years, I think? 

I had buried you all those years ago. The dirt got everywhere, but I pressed on, digging what would be your grave. I had help, of course. My therapist was my biggest supporter. 

Many days were hard work, some days I took a break, and yet on others I would find stones that were such a hassle to get out of the soil before I could continue my labor. 

When it was time to fill the grave, it went by faster. At the end of it, I patted the soil firmly, wanting to be assured it was compacted and sturdy. 

Your grave was unmarked and I left, your grave was an odd one. 

It was in the shape of a childhood wound.

*

You were dead.

I wore a yellow dress with purple flowers, a big white sunhat was placed lopsided on my head, too large for a five-year old. 

“You came! You came!” I shrieked and hugged your leg. I was always so small.

“Of course.” you said, smiling down at me. I grabbed your hand and marched you over to the remnants of cake and half opened gifts, pink wrapping paper scattered about. 

“Do you want some cake?” I offered my half eaten slice, you shook your head. “Then…will you play tag with me?” I shyly asked and you grinned and gave chase. 

The August sun beamed down and you chased me around in the backyard, the half eaten cake forgotten, frosting melting in the heat. It didn’t matter to me that you missed the main event, it didn’t matter you didn’t get me a gift. Nothing else mattered when you were here. You were my hero.

Mom came out of the house and abruptly you stopped. 

“Be right back.” You mumbled, and went up to her. Your faces were frowning and the murmur of your voices filled the air. I sat in the shade of a tree, the one that always made me sneeze in the summer, and plucked the dandelions from the ground, there were so many!

Mom didn’t like you, I don’t think you liked mom. I plucked more flowers, my heart still beating fast from running. I felt sweat gathering from the back of my neck, sticking to me like syrup. I didn’t like it.

I whipped my head up at the sound of angry voices. You two were yelling and I quickly glanced down at my flowers, furiously picking more. I still don’t understand.

Quick footsteps got my attention again and I saw you walk out the gate. I got up, the flowers clutched in my hands and I ran as fast as I could towards you but you were already in your car. Mom scooped me up, her arms like iron, as I struggled to break free. 

“Dad! Don’t go! Don’t go!” I sobbed. You didn’t look back as you drove away. The flowers in my hand were crushed and I dropped them on the ground.

That would be the last time I would see you for a long time. 

And the last time I loved my birthday.

*

You were dead.

It was a brisk winter day when we met again. I was eighteen, young and impressionable. I knocked at your door, my throat was tight but I felt hopeful. 

There you were and you…looked exactly the same. You hugged me and it was strange but comforting, a hug from a stranger. 

“You are so big!” you cried, laughing and hugging me again. “Come in, the food is ready!”

I floated home that night. Maybe I could have it all, a complete family and figuring out who I was, where I got certain traits from. Mom always said I had your knack for creating things, and when I saw your office, she was right. It was a blissful couple months, spending time with you. I asked lots of questions but I did not realize at the time how well you danced. 

Danced around my questions perfectly. 

On a subconscious level, I knew. I wasn’t ready to admit that I saw you from rose colored glasses. Children often have a way of romanticizing, don’t you think? I think maybe you knew that too; after all, who wants to tell their children that Santa isn’t real?

But then one day, I did ask a hard question and you didn’t take it well. It was not one you could dance around any longer. I got an answer, but not in the way I thought I would.

You ran away. Gone, just like before. I tried to convince myself you wouldn’t do that. You would own up to your mistakes. Isn’t that what adults do? I decided to call you, but much to my dismay, you blocked my number. Any traces of you disappeared and my rose colored glasses broke. 

That was the day I started digging your grave. 

*

You are dead. 

I placed flowers on your grave today.

Dandelions. They reminded me of you. 

Always popping up whenever they like, pretty but unwanted and useless to me. I bowed my head, the tears I swore that wouldn’t fall dropping onto the ground for no one to see, disguised by the rain.

Don’t be mistaken, my tears aren’t for you but for me. For the death of the could’ve been. What should have been. For my childhood. 

I mourned for that more than I mourned for you. 

I am back in the area. Please call me.

You aren’t dead. You are very much alive, waiting for my response yet again. 

But this time, you won’t get one.