Dad
Brianna Gauthier
I am six years old, sitting in the backseat of my dad’s white Lumina. The grey felt of the backseat clings to my arms in the summer heat. We’re driving home from church listening to “Top of the World” by The Carpenters. My long hair is whipping in the wind from the windows as I sing at the top of my lungs while my dad smiles as he sings. Eleven years later, I am suddenly brought out of my memory by the worst words I have ever heard.
“There’s nothing we can do. I’m so sorry.”
Calling 911 and different relatives to come help didn’t change the outcome of that night. I clung to the cold white countertop and traced the short lines of the grout between the tiles to keep from crying. That was it. My dad was dead. My aunt burst through the door and ran to me and my sister. I couldn’t keep it in any longer. He couldn’t be dead. I had just seen him a few hours ago before I left for dance. My life wasn’t supposed to change so much in just four hours. My mom and aunt helped me to the couch where we waited. For family. For time to go back. For a change that would never come. That was Wednesday. The next few days were a blur of picking out his suit, casket, plot, flowers, and finding a venue for the brunch that was to follow his funeral. I bottled up my emotions almost completely until Saturday. The day of his funeral. I went through the day feeling numb. The tears did not stop flowing. I had never cried in front of anyone who wasn’t immediate family, but that day I cried in front of a church full of over 150 people and gave no thought to the others in the room. My only thoughts were about my dad and how I hoped I put on waterproof mascara that morning.
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