It was pouring rain. We ran into the church, my mom and me, my dress clinging to my ankles, my shoes filling with water as I side stepped puddles. The church door flew up under my pull, and then, silence.
The lights weren’t even on yet, just a quiet, glorious church. We walked slowly up to the front, found a pew, and waited.
I was nervous. I hadn’t spent time with Levi’s dad and his family in months. It’s always quick exchanges, short text messages about logistics.
I do not love him anymore. So I have peace. But Levi does. Levi will never have the peace that I can have. So mine is interrupted by his sorrow, his ache that’ll never leave him. Studies show that even adult children still dream of their parents being together. The ache gets lighter, not so much a burden, but deep in the pockets of his soul, he’ll always long for us to be his at the same time. To not have happy and sad always tied into one. A few nights ago I went to pick hi
On her eighth birthday, her father had a heart attack. She remembers the sun shining. A perfect August day. Her black hair was cut short around her face, and it bounced as she ran around the yard, some cousins and friends running beside her, their laughter tickling the toes of the clouds. She remembers her bangs sticking to her forehead, her father pushing them out of her eyes, lifting her chin, planting a kiss on the tip of her nose, her nose that was shaped like his. She re
The red truck comes slowly up the dirt road, under hickory trees and a half built house, the sun gleaming down on it. The kids are in the back atop a dwindling pile of mulch, smiles plastered across their faces, the wind whipping around them. Levi is shouting with joy, his body covered in dirt and weeds and his hands blistered, his soccer uniform a royal blue in the sun. He hops out of the back of the truck, out of breath, so happy he can barely speak. “We did all the mulch a
I dreamt of my father sitting by the water. He was on a front porch, a long wrap around chestnut colored porch with white railings. He sat in his wheelchair, my son’s royal blue blanket tucked up to his chin. There was no mask on his face. His eyes, the clear blue green that they are, were staring straight ahead, watching as waves lapped and crashed, and sea gulls laughed into the wind and dove at the sandy shore. His eyes, in this dream, were not glazed over, they were not u