The Act of Contending

I gazed out my window, confined to my house. I thought to myself about the times I would play outside as a child with my younger sister, I reminisced about how easy life was and how pleasant life seemed. It’s sad almost to think about how deceiving, misleading and cruel children’s thoughts are. How we thought we would live for ever. I pictured the scene. I could imagine the smell; it was so clear to me. Freshly cut grass, the smell of my mum making our favourite food, the sweet scent of the nearby flowers. I could hear the giggle of my little sister as she plays with the puppy that my dad had recently bought home for us and I could feel the faint tugged on my lips as I began to smile at the thought of being as happy as I was. My phone made a faint buzz and only after a minute or two when I had finally stopped thinking about what once had been did I look at the message I had received. My stomach dropped and the breeze fell. Everything was almost peaceful for a second. Until the clock on my watch started ticking so loud that it began to feel like it was in my head. Until every noise I could ever imagine was inside of me making a desperate attempt to escape but like a blind man in an unknown environment he didn’t know where the exit was. I felt every emotion and nothing at all at the same time, my feelings whizzed around me, mocking me, laughing at me. Anger choked at my throat and my eyes burned from trying to stop the tears from falling. My vision blurred at the desperate attempt to make it seem as if I was okay. I turned around to my father, the strongest person I knew, everybody’s rock. I could sense that now, radiating out of my father was the idea that he hadn’t done enough, that he hadn’t said the things that he wanted, needed, to say. Anger, guilt, longing all hugged us tightly and it felt as if they were never going to let go. I sobbed. A single tear slid down from my father’s warm, hazel eyes, followed by another one, and another one, until soon, a steady stream of tears flowed its way down his cheek, releasing the sadness that had been held inside of him but still he did not make a sound. I hold my father’s hand as we stand at the foot of the grave. What is left of my heart fills with sorrow at the thought of never being able to say goodbye. The virus continues to consume the people dearest to us and wreak havoc among the people who have not yet been taken. It is 2020 and now we all have something in common.

by Katie-mai

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