I walk to the door on the verge of tears. I’m overwhelmed with dread, fear, and regret. I put my key in the door and for a moment I can’t find the strength to turn it. I have to put my head against the door to keep myself from losing it. Tears silently streaming down my face; I turn the key. As I cross the threshold, I’m struck with how alien my home looks and feels to me. I’ve spent the past two years feeling trapped in this house. Now it feels like my time here, was years past and not the three days it has really been. I am here for a reason. I’m here to wash the sheets where it all happened. I half crawl up the stairs to the bedroom, the whole time whimpering and muttering regrets. I pull the sheets quickly; I have to keep moving. When I get downstairs, I feel a surge of loss. I’m dropped to my knees and all I can do is bawl into the sheets. I begin wailing, “what have I done to my family?”, “it’s over”. I feel like my bones are made of lead. I can’t find the strength to continue. Then I hear him. “You need to keep moving, T. Don’t stop now.” I look up and there he is. The one who visited me in my dark place. The one who is standing by me in my darkest hour. My father.
*This happened eight months ago. I know it’s not the most upbeat thing you’ve ever read, but when I saw that the prompt for this week was tears, this was what stood out in my mind.
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