The Picture

There was a printed picture of my family that hung on the refrigerator door in the kitchen. I saw it every day when I would get the milk out to add to my cereal or my coffee. We were at my grandparents’ house, sitting together by the fireplace. My parents were sitting on the mantle, while the three kids that made up the McGraw family were sitting on the carpet in front. We were all beaming at the camera in our own unique way, reflecting the idyllic existence that was the five of us. The close bond we shared with each other was apparent, as were the many memories we shared as one.

But occasionally, life wasn’t so idyllic, as we each had our own struggles. Though due to our bond, the storm that raged in life would dissipate. The sun would be shining again, and we were back to being happy. It never occurred to the other four members of my family that there would be a time that the sun would never rise for one of us again. But that was something that I had dwelled on for a long time. And occasionally, I would glance at the photograph and see a starkly different picture of our family.

For a split second, I would see a starkly different picture. One of the five would disappear, and the other four were no longer smiling. Their eyes were puffy, and their cheeks tear stained, even though they did their best to smile. I saw that they were in nice clothes, standing in the Church that we went to every Sunday. They were in front of an open casket, and lying in there was one of the deceased members of the immediate family. With their eyes closed and their hands on their side, trapped in an eternal slumber that they would forever not wake up from. The person in the casket changed depending on who I was most worried about. Sometimes, I was the one in the casket.

Even though it only lasted a split second, and the photograph went back to normal, I was always bawling my eyes out afterward. I was especially inconsolable when it was my mother that was in the casket. She was the pedestal holding me up, and I couldn’t handle seeing her like that. I couldn’t even handle being away from her for a long period of time. My mother, Rhonda McGraw, was my best friend. The one I depended on the most to get through my struggles. The others stung just as much, but in different ways. I loved them, and worried about them. But the feeling was stronger with my mother.

This had changed me, and my innocence was torn apart. I was dwelling on the bleak future ahead of me where that image would be reality, and I was always obsessed with the photograph. I would stare at it for hours and try to unravel the mystery that surrounded this photograph. Why did it change like that, and why did it affect me so much? I had thought about getting rid of it, and my mom thought it was a good idea. But then, I refused to take it off. I figured it was too important of a picture for me to just carelessly toss it away.

My dad, Theodore McGraw, didn’t understand why this picture affected me so much. It was only a photograph, and I shouldn’t have to worry about it so much. The importance of this photograph was one of many things we didn’t see eye to eye about. But he did understand where the fear was coming from. He too would hate to see one of us gone.

I would eventually get over it through my adulthood, but I never forgot it. It lingered in my subconscious and reared its ugly head in my dreams. But I always told myself that it was my overactive imagination. I just accepted it as a part of my existence on this Earth, and even that I would deal with it along the way as I matured. I would see the same image for a split second when I pondered somebody’s time left on this Earth. But now was not the time for this line of thinking, I told myself. I must focus on the idyllic existence that was my life.

Then one day in April, I woke up to dreadful news. My older brother Hank and my younger sister Wilma was here. My mother told me my dad was in the hospital. He had a stroke while on the job. No longer was Death far away from me and my family. Rather, it was the haunting reality that he was close by where my father was. I immediately rushed to the photograph, and there was the four of us with the same forlorn expressions on their faces. While my dad was in the casket.

We drove an hour north to the suburbs of Milwaukee, and soon we saw my Dad in the hospital bed. He was hooked up to a bunch of things, and he wasn’t the Dad I saw when he dropped me off at work in the morning. We all held on to the cold comfort that he was awake and alert. We spent the entire weekend by his bedside, hoping for the best and praying to God. I always made sure to tell him I love him before we went back home for the night. I was holding on the ledge of the pedestal that I had quickly realized had crumbled a bunch. I was close to falling into the abyss, falling with the piece that was my father.

Miraculously, my Dad recovered and was out of the hospital. His symptoms went away, and life was back to normal soon enough. But now, I’m always grateful to see him. I’m always appreciative of our differences and am holding on to him stronger than I had been before. I was now thinking about his health, asking him questions to make sure he’s alright. Spending time with him and hearing what he has to say at the moment.

The changed photograph on the wall lasted the entire weekend my Dad was in the hospital. My entire family was seeing it, and my mom quickly hid it somewhere. But I made sure to fish it back out and put it back on the refrigerator. When life had resumed normally, the photograph went back to our smiling selves. But when I found myself dreading the eventual fate of my family, I would glance at the photo and see the funeral scene. Except this time, it was always my Dad in the casket.