I was sitting alone on the linoleum floor of a cold house, clutching a half burned photo album. It was absolutely silent. I was the only one left in the house, so I dimmed the lights and found a cramped closet to curl up into. Everyone else had left here a long time ago. I urged them to go on ahead of me, that I would clean up and sell the house. So, with heavy hearts and bitter smiles, they all left me to pick up the pieces, like they always had.
“Figures,” I muttered to myself. I jumped at the thunder that resounded around the house, and settled back into my spot in the clutter of coats. My voice was scratchy, and each time I bit back tears it felt like sandpaper was rubbing itself around my throat. What the sand was trying to smooth out in my throat, I don't know, but I hoped it would finish soon. Swallowing again, I flipped open the album, catching sight of several photos of a happy family of three. There was a young woman who somewhat resembled myself, a chubby cheeked baby boy, and him.



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He worked so hard for all of us. He knew that it wasn't about him, us, or the family name. It was about continuing the future. It was a long, hard road, one filled with so many bear traps and pot holes I was surprised that he didn't loose a leg or two along the way. He pounded through it though, never loosing sight of what really mattered. Despite the circumstances, whether they were difficult or just plain silly, I knew that he would always come after us. That is, until his abused body decided it was done.



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The gears in my mind had shifted when I was about 15. I saw the “future” in my dreams. Many different futures that, ultimately, could or would happen. Some came true, like seeing my aunt sit in her chair, drinking a Pepsi, and chatting away on the phone six months before it happened. Some just passed me by. It seemed that there were specific coordinates, and whatever future had those coordinates would fit into the path I walked. Many of those futures that seemed to invade my mind had very similar coordinates, besides just being one degree off in a specific direction. Sometimes it was such a small difference, but nonetheless that future wouldn't happen because of the shift. I would see that this future for him fit, and as time progressed it began to fall into place.



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At first, he began to loose the feeling in his limbs, then the paralysis stretched farther throughout his body. Each day the headache was getting worse. Sometimes, his weight would shrivel up into some unfathomable number for a man his size, and others he couldn't manage to get off the bed without the help of my older brothers. My dad was dying a really slow and painful death.
I had foreseen this in many dreams. I noticed that it wasn't off the path that we were currently traveling, and seem to coincide with the other futures I had seen and were already happening. It was painful, but I managed to keep this to myself. Because my “dream premonitions” weren't something that I shared with others. There was no need to, as they could not be the future or they were just wrong to share. So I continued to walk this path, even though it was agonizing and had a far off, explosive ending. This was my own quiet death sentence I deemed myself worthy of. If it lead to glory though, what else could I have done but accepted?



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I remembered taking a peek at my grandma just before they closed her casket. She laid in her coffin, pale, limp, and lifeless. Unlike what others seemed to say of the dead, she hadn't looked at peace; she didn't look like my grandma. My grandma was a woman who always had a sad tint to her smiles, guarded loneliness in her eyes, and carried her kind heart in her handbag. This woman was a shell that once held my grandma. A shell that had been abandoned for glory. That was exactly how my dad looked when he was dead. Something that held the man he was, but didn't anymore.



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I had cried so much. I was always the sentimental one. So, while the rest of the guests were quiet during the remembrance, I cried, weeping in that silent way that tended to freak people out. I didn't shout, sob, or even sniffle. Tears just seemed to leak from my eyes, my nose shinning bright as Rudolph's, and my eyebrows pinched together. I cried as his service played, and then sucked up whatever other tears wanted out when it was time to meet with my siblings. We had decided that I would deal with his estate. It seems that these matters always found their way into my lap. As the head of the estate, with legal matters and a house to clean up, my first decision was? Go weep at my dad's house.
It's not that I was overly devout to my dad and would miss him terribly, though I did love him, but I felt that a part of me was dying. One that wasn't fully grown yet, one who should have more years. I saw the way my dad was a master key of sorts, managing to cram himself into just about any lock and still opening the door. I had begun to grow that way too, but it seemed that whatever I had going in that direction was at a permanent hiatus. What can I do though? Death is the great equalizer, and nothing seemed to be able to bring someone back from that side of the doorway. So, my resolve? I cried. I stepped off to the wayside and allowed myself some time to be a stationary one degree off. As long as I find myself back on the path, traveling the way I was meant to go, I'm sure that no one will mind the mess I'm leaving to sit temporarily. Then, once my head's back on straight, it's onto forever and always.