Fictional Narrative
My dad is a sensitive man. At first glance, burly and cold. Seemingly uninterested in whatever you're doing. But entangled in his own sensitivity, I draw resemblance with him. Quietly observing. Waiting for the silence and the peaceful ringing in your ears to sound.
My grandfather just passed. His death is long and painfully drawn out. My tainted consciousness and recollection brings me to the stairs leading up to his funeral. We are greeted at the top of the stairs by my aunt. She timidly stands while handing out an old childhood baseball photo of my grandfather. I stand holding the hand of my mom while they talk. I take the baseball cards that were handed to me and throw them onto the gray stucco of the rooftop. The cards lie scattered as I laugh off my impulsive action. I feel a tug on my arm as I look up at the disappointed eyes of my mom. I am incapable of apologizing, so I let go of my mom and walk away.
We find our seats. I sit on the farthest end closest to the row. I have a clear sight of the podium up ahead where people stand to speak. I sit and watch. I watch the pain in people rise from speaking of my grandfather. It compels me; it also makes me proud–proud that a man with such a legacy could deeply impact the lives of so many.
I sit waiting for my dad to speak, unsure of the nature of how he will speak. He takes the stand. He wears a black button down shirt and a black pair of glasses. I still wonder if those glasses were worn intentionally. As he begins to speak, I sense the looming tension in the air.The feeling of being stuck in time. As my unfazed gaze continues on his slowly deteriorating face, he breaks. A tear slowly runs down his face. A tear that momentarily shakes my whole perception on how I thought my dad would act and be in that moment. A light shone down on the balcony where we all sat. A light that I had never seen before. The light continued to shine. It shone down on my dad’s teary-eyed face.
The service was over and everyone politely got up and out of the neatly organized chairs. I reconnected with my family as we began to walk down the street for dinner. But my mind stays fixed. On the single teardrop that ran down my dad’s face.
