Open Heart
by Mayuri Chandra
Second Runner-Up, 2026 Fiction Contest
Watching my dad cook for himself is such a strange novelty, but I do need to point out that a fourteen-minute egg will be rock hard.
He tsks at me as he captains the stovetop and the timer above it, and within this sound is: what do you know/raw eggs can kill/just like those closed-toe shoes will eventually compel your toenails into your skin. His is a deep-rooted system of beliefs shaped by a village childhood. You cannot convince him otherwise on his wide-ranging span of certainties that sometimes feel mythological in origin. When I was a child, he warned me that if I counted up all the stars, I’d go blind.
My six-year old son shoulders my dad’s beach bag into the kitchen and plops it onto the floor before us, like a housecat with a half-dead mouse. “I brought your bag down,” he announces, cheeks adorably puffed out with the effort. I recognize his need to make his Thatha proud, to impress. Today’s beach trip, pre-heart surgery, was my son’s idea and he wants credit for it.
I scoop him into my arms and stamp kisses on his babyface.
My dad draws out his, “Abbhaaa,” a Telugu expression that absorbs sarcasm like a towel, which, here, conveys: What do you want, a medal? I didn’t ask for a coolie.
“I need to eat first,” he says.
I bring heated-up leftover curry to the table in another woman’s Pyrex. (Has there ever been, in this house, an act, a movement—from microwave to table—so tied to one person, my now-gone mother?) I almost feel embarrassed.
My dad assembles his tiffin, unaware of my feelings. Onto two pearly eggs he spoons the thick tomato-dense sauce, like he’s about to pray to it.
Other People’s Curries in his fridge makes me sad for him, makes me chauvinistically mad at my mom for dying first. My aunties use mailing address labels proprietarily on their Tupperware—their haphazard stickers are a warning: I better get this back.
“Isn’t it so funny, to see real flowers next to fake flowers?” my older son, eight, poetically asks, addressing the coffee table. Rolls of toilet paper and vitamin bottles sit next to multiple floral arrangements, some still wrapped in grocery store cellophane. Every single thing in this house reminds me my mother is gone, even the way The Jeffersons is blaring from the TV.
My dad swallows before saying to him, “Are you a botanist?”
I cross my arms, transfixed by the old show. How was I once ever ignorant to all the sexual innuendo?
“Why are those people laughing?” my son, the older one again, the thinker, asks, about the laugh track.
“Oh. It’s meant to show you where to laugh,” I say. “They used to make TV shows that way.”
After a moment, he presses. “But where are the people?”
This is so confusing. Why did we need cues to emote? “In the TV studio where they made the show...” I am trying too hard. I start over. “So. It’s not a real living room, there. There’s an audience, watching.”
He makes the same uncertain face he did when my husband and I tried to explain his Thatha’s heart surgery.
“But what happens if he wakes up in the middle of it?” he had asked, eyes wide.
“It’s a very deep sleep,” I said, confidently. Remembering, too late, that this is exactly how I had also worded death
He tsks at me as he captains the stovetop and the timer above it, and within this sound is: what do you know/raw eggs can kill/just like those closed-toe shoes will eventually compel your toenails into your skin. His is a deep-rooted system of beliefs shaped by a village childhood. You cannot convince him otherwise on his wide-ranging span of certainties that sometimes feel mythological in origin. When I was a child, he warned me that if I counted up all the stars, I’d go blind.
My six-year old son shoulders my dad’s beach bag into the kitchen and plops it onto the floor before us, like a housecat with a half-dead mouse. “I brought your bag down,” he announces, cheeks adorably puffed out with the effort. I recognize his need to make his Thatha proud, to impress. Today’s beach trip, pre-heart surgery, was my son’s idea and he wants credit for it.
I scoop him into my arms and stamp kisses on his babyface.
My dad draws out his, “Abbhaaa,” a Telugu expression that absorbs sarcasm like a towel, which, here, conveys: What do you want, a medal? I didn’t ask for a coolie.
“I need to eat first,” he says.
I bring heated-up leftover curry to the table in another woman’s Pyrex. (Has there ever been, in this house, an act, a movement—from microwave to table—so tied to one person, my now-gone mother?) I almost feel embarrassed.
My dad assembles his tiffin, unaware of my feelings. Onto two pearly eggs he spoons the thick tomato-dense sauce, like he’s about to pray to it.
Other People’s Curries in his fridge makes me sad for him, makes me chauvinistically mad at my mom for dying first. My aunties use mailing address labels proprietarily on their Tupperware—their haphazard stickers are a warning: I better get this back.
“Isn’t it so funny, to see real flowers next to fake flowers?” my older son, eight, poetically asks, addressing the coffee table. Rolls of toilet paper and vitamin bottles sit next to multiple floral arrangements, some still wrapped in grocery store cellophane. Every single thing in this house reminds me my mother is gone, even the way The Jeffersons is blaring from the TV.
My dad swallows before saying to him, “Are you a botanist?”
I cross my arms, transfixed by the old show. How was I once ever ignorant to all the sexual innuendo?
“Why are those people laughing?” my son, the older one again, the thinker, asks, about the laugh track.
“Oh. It’s meant to show you where to laugh,” I say. “They used to make TV shows that way.”
After a moment, he presses. “But where are the people?”
This is so confusing. Why did we need cues to emote? “In the TV studio where they made the show...” I am trying too hard. I start over. “So. It’s not a real living room, there. There’s an audience, watching.”
He makes the same uncertain face he did when my husband and I tried to explain his Thatha’s heart surgery.
“But what happens if he wakes up in the middle of it?” he had asked, eyes wide.
“It’s a very deep sleep,” I said, confidently. Remembering, too late, that this is exactly how I had also worded death
*
Where my dad is “Grandpa” to my sister’s and brothers’ kids, he is Thathayya to mine. This is because my siblings married white people.
I’ve come to see that Thatha speaks differently than Grandpa does.
When my kids cry, he scolds, “yeah, yeah, keep crying, I can’t hear you.” But when their kids cry, it’s because there must be a good reason.
I try not to take this personally—after all, we are his everyday; my siblings don’t live close by and can’t check in on him. And, at the least, my kids don’t receive that third and most terrifying tier of tone, reserved now for Alexa and traffic, but once belonging exclusively to me and my siblings, the one that could first freeze and then close up a heart.
I’ve come to see that Thatha speaks differently than Grandpa does.
When my kids cry, he scolds, “yeah, yeah, keep crying, I can’t hear you.” But when their kids cry, it’s because there must be a good reason.
I try not to take this personally—after all, we are his everyday; my siblings don’t live close by and can’t check in on him. And, at the least, my kids don’t receive that third and most terrifying tier of tone, reserved now for Alexa and traffic, but once belonging exclusively to me and my siblings, the one that could first freeze and then close up a heart.
*
We take the only road to the beach, the Parkway South.
I glance in the rearview at the boys, sweetly making up a song about snowpants. They are cracking each other up. I wish my dad would notice.
Approaching the ocean towns down here is something of an orientation. We pass outdated, relaxed storefronts with handpainted signs, surf shops, diners. Everything has an easy name: Jerry’s, Max’s, Pop’s. The cars themselves encourage and naturalize us, giving way from boxy SUVs around exit 151 to windowless Jeeps by exit 100, older vehicles pulling boats or piled with canoes; elbows and long strands of hair exposed.
“This was such a good idea, bud,” I say, to my little guy.
I glance in the rearview at the boys, sweetly making up a song about snowpants. They are cracking each other up. I wish my dad would notice.
Approaching the ocean towns down here is something of an orientation. We pass outdated, relaxed storefronts with handpainted signs, surf shops, diners. Everything has an easy name: Jerry’s, Max’s, Pop’s. The cars themselves encourage and naturalize us, giving way from boxy SUVs around exit 151 to windowless Jeeps by exit 100, older vehicles pulling boats or piled with canoes; elbows and long strands of hair exposed.
“This was such a good idea, bud,” I say, to my little guy.
*
On the boardwalk, my dad walks like every Thathayya I ever knew, hunched over a little, hands behind his back. The kids are dashing ahead to reach the entrance to the beach, but I keep pace with my dad, remembering his heart.
We pass the ubiquitous wooden benches, the ones that bear plaques commemorating specific beach-loving family members. For Nonno, who loved this place.
As we are walking, my dad starts in on the story of Shikha Roychowdhury, the girl who everyone was “after” in college. I know this one well.
Two teenage lifeguards walk past us, shirtless and tattooed, gossiping. My dad raises himself up heroically, to get into it.
“No, it was exciting because—I had finally completed my exams. I had arranged to meet my friends at the cinema afterward, but I was late.” He tsks, in-story, playing the character. Shakes his hand this way and that. “The national anthem was already playing, everyone was already standing. It looked like no seats left. And the attendant—” he smiles here, remembering, “he brought me, with his torch, to the only vacant seat. And who was it next to?”
“Shikha Roychowdhury,” I say, disbelieving, even though, again, I know this story. I am rooting for this young, slick-haired, shy, before-dad dude. He is Marty McFly. He is Luke Skywalker.
At fate, my dad raises his eyebrows. Clicks his tongue. “One remaining seat!” he says.
His story ends here, but I have romanticized the rest, out of necessity—how his friends would be jealous of this proximity to her, her skin, her scent, her reaction to the movie. How he hoped it would alarm her, cause her to laugh or cry, so he could witness this all up close. Let it be a Chaplin, he prayed. Let it be Rajesh Khanna. Let it be Aradhana. How his heart must have beat throughout the movie, skipping in tune to the songs. A once-village, soon-to-be-American boy, college-aged, not allowed even to touch someone of a higher caste, even by accident.
I want to tell him, now, that the things he once cared about don’t matter anymore—private schools, money, being American. Not the way he dreamt it, at least. But there is a line I don’t cross.
We find a spot on the beach and set up chairs and lay out towels. Reggaeton mixes with Billy Joel but miraculously stays compacted per grouping non-invasively and this is the unspoken order of the shore. Boys in dreads race towards the water still wearing sneakers. I breathe in the smell of Cheeto salt and driftwood and feel warmed. Seagulls caw overhead in-community and it matches the laughter below, girlfriends seated in a semi-circle of Rutgers chairs.
I sunscreen the wriggling kids and then free them. I really want an iced coffee but don’t have full faith my dad will watch them while I’m gone. He doesn’t trust the ocean and stays beyond its reach. Another matter of law.
He says to me, “Come on, let’s walk.”
“Dad—,” I say, annoyance in my voice. “I can’t just. Leave the kids.”
He stands to stretch, pulls his cap firmly downward and sets off anyway.
With one eye towards the boys at the shoreline, I text my husband:
Uggh
In a moment, my phone pings. Beach w Thatha good, then?
I imagine him at work, rolling his chair away from his desk, phone in hand.
You mean my third kid?
He responds with the crying-laughing emoji. And then texts,
You're a good daughter only.
This: specific recognition, comfort. The ease, the relief, in not having to arm myself to be understood. My siblings don’t have this.
I look up, towards the kids. Beyond them, girls in hijabs are chestdeep in waves. Someone is speaking Russian nearby.
I type ILUT, our shorthand for, I Love You, Though. Meaning: the world is vast and crumbling/the work and worry of the kids/our grip on everything else; but. We have us.
I stand up, hand against my forehead, to see how far my dad has made it.
We pass the ubiquitous wooden benches, the ones that bear plaques commemorating specific beach-loving family members. For Nonno, who loved this place.
As we are walking, my dad starts in on the story of Shikha Roychowdhury, the girl who everyone was “after” in college. I know this one well.
Two teenage lifeguards walk past us, shirtless and tattooed, gossiping. My dad raises himself up heroically, to get into it.
“No, it was exciting because—I had finally completed my exams. I had arranged to meet my friends at the cinema afterward, but I was late.” He tsks, in-story, playing the character. Shakes his hand this way and that. “The national anthem was already playing, everyone was already standing. It looked like no seats left. And the attendant—” he smiles here, remembering, “he brought me, with his torch, to the only vacant seat. And who was it next to?”
“Shikha Roychowdhury,” I say, disbelieving, even though, again, I know this story. I am rooting for this young, slick-haired, shy, before-dad dude. He is Marty McFly. He is Luke Skywalker.
At fate, my dad raises his eyebrows. Clicks his tongue. “One remaining seat!” he says.
His story ends here, but I have romanticized the rest, out of necessity—how his friends would be jealous of this proximity to her, her skin, her scent, her reaction to the movie. How he hoped it would alarm her, cause her to laugh or cry, so he could witness this all up close. Let it be a Chaplin, he prayed. Let it be Rajesh Khanna. Let it be Aradhana. How his heart must have beat throughout the movie, skipping in tune to the songs. A once-village, soon-to-be-American boy, college-aged, not allowed even to touch someone of a higher caste, even by accident.
I want to tell him, now, that the things he once cared about don’t matter anymore—private schools, money, being American. Not the way he dreamt it, at least. But there is a line I don’t cross.
We find a spot on the beach and set up chairs and lay out towels. Reggaeton mixes with Billy Joel but miraculously stays compacted per grouping non-invasively and this is the unspoken order of the shore. Boys in dreads race towards the water still wearing sneakers. I breathe in the smell of Cheeto salt and driftwood and feel warmed. Seagulls caw overhead in-community and it matches the laughter below, girlfriends seated in a semi-circle of Rutgers chairs.
I sunscreen the wriggling kids and then free them. I really want an iced coffee but don’t have full faith my dad will watch them while I’m gone. He doesn’t trust the ocean and stays beyond its reach. Another matter of law.
He says to me, “Come on, let’s walk.”
“Dad—,” I say, annoyance in my voice. “I can’t just. Leave the kids.”
He stands to stretch, pulls his cap firmly downward and sets off anyway.
With one eye towards the boys at the shoreline, I text my husband:
Uggh
In a moment, my phone pings. Beach w Thatha good, then?
I imagine him at work, rolling his chair away from his desk, phone in hand.
You mean my third kid?
He responds with the crying-laughing emoji. And then texts,
You're a good daughter only.
This: specific recognition, comfort. The ease, the relief, in not having to arm myself to be understood. My siblings don’t have this.
I look up, towards the kids. Beyond them, girls in hijabs are chestdeep in waves. Someone is speaking Russian nearby.
I type ILUT, our shorthand for, I Love You, Though. Meaning: the world is vast and crumbling/the work and worry of the kids/our grip on everything else; but. We have us.
I stand up, hand against my forehead, to see how far my dad has made it.
*
The boys start to dig a hole in the sand with nearby kids. My dad comes back to sit, and I notice he is winded. I hand him a cold water from the beach bag, wondering if he wants to talk about his upcoming surgery.
Quadruple bypass heart surgery. As if the more syllables, the more gravitas. By contrast, labor sounds like I just lifted something heavy for a short while. Twice.
My older son runs up to us, excited about the black thing he carries in his hands. “It’s a shark egg, I learned about it in school!” He shows us the weird dried pepper-like rectangle with tentacles.
“Whoa,” I say. I get out my phone to Google this, deliberately in view of my dad. This is how you do this parenting thing; match their excitement. Turn your attention.
I recite from my phone—“also known as a mermaid’s purse, this sac protects the eggs of sharks and skates!”—my voice gets higher and faster as I read.
My dad wields the thing, eyeing his grandson carefully. He returns the treasure and says, “Abbha.”
Oh you’re a marine biologist now, are you?
How many more years until they dislike him, as I often have, in life.
Quadruple bypass heart surgery. As if the more syllables, the more gravitas. By contrast, labor sounds like I just lifted something heavy for a short while. Twice.
My older son runs up to us, excited about the black thing he carries in his hands. “It’s a shark egg, I learned about it in school!” He shows us the weird dried pepper-like rectangle with tentacles.
“Whoa,” I say. I get out my phone to Google this, deliberately in view of my dad. This is how you do this parenting thing; match their excitement. Turn your attention.
I recite from my phone—“also known as a mermaid’s purse, this sac protects the eggs of sharks and skates!”—my voice gets higher and faster as I read.
My dad wields the thing, eyeing his grandson carefully. He returns the treasure and says, “Abbha.”
Oh you’re a marine biologist now, are you?
How many more years until they dislike him, as I often have, in life.
*
We head back up to the Boardwalk for lunch, sand granules flecked in both boys’ black hair.
This time, those recurring benches strike me as contrived, exclusive. Like, my name is too real for this bench, too long; my love for this place too mysterious and Shakespearean, involving a journey.
I feel such pride that I am able to handle the boys on this outing, alone; that I took the day off to care for my father when my siblings live far away, fulfilling a duty that our mom would be proud of—in fact, carrying it for all of us.
All of this is shot down when he says to me, nonchalantly, “It’s not good, you know, to love them so much.”
He says this matter-of-factly, like someone loved him too much or maybe not enough. Separately, but no less offensive, is the implication that I am giving something that is somehow undeserved. Either way, it breaks my heart. And again. I don’t know what to say.
When he sits down at a colorfully painted table, I am reminded of how compact his life is now, as his wallet and pen tap against each other in his shirtfront pocket, how he instinctively guards it when he leans forward or lowers himself into a chair. All his possessions on him.
I marshal a trayful of iced drinks and sandwiches in paper baskets. As my younger son chews his burger, ketchup glops immediately paint his cheeks. His head moves with a rollerblader and then changes direction to follow a man walking with an iguana on his back. We may as well be in Algiers.
His gaping eyes freeze at something, suddenly arrested. In excitement, he turns to us and says, “look! Look!” (I have to smile at this because it sounds like Yook! Yook!)
There is a small crowd forming in front of the pizza shack, just in front of us. They’re all considering something on the ground and others give it a long glance too, as they walk by.
It’s a bird—a seagull, and it’s sitting against the food stand, nonplussed by the attention. My boys find this wondrous.
A bird, like this, up-close! It turns its head sharply, squeezes its eyes slowly and opens them again.
We return to our lunch and as one son rattles off seagull facts, I can tell my dad is tired, worn out by silly child talk.
With two bites left of his burger, my older son stands up suddenly. “I have to go bathroom.” This is an announcement, but also when he makes bathroom a verb, it’s a ticking time bomb.
My dad does not offer to take them, as if to confirm to me, This is a YOU-problem.
“OK,” I say, rising, shoving the rest of my fries into my mouth. “Dad, can you…” I gesture for him to protect the food remnants from seagulls.
Walking back from the restrooms, I consider the ocean, now to my left.
What could possibly frighten while gazing out at this unbroken horizon? Doesn’t my dad, like me, inevitably imagine the globe, our globe? Can we possibly share that one wonderful thought?
From a few meters away, I can tell the bird is still there by the small crowd noticing it from afar.
If it hasn’t moved, it can’t be a good thing. I had stayed hopeful, imagining a pregnant mother bird, but now, I realize with a pang, it is dying. It’s the resignation that gives it away, the search for comfort and grace, for a nice quiet spot. That slow blink of pain.
My dad is not at our pink table, where our napkins flutter, daring to lift off. I scan and discover that he’s leaning over the bird, close.
I pick up our pace, nervous, suddenly.
Birds call out overhead; are they made aware somehow?
I don’t know why, but I worry he will do something insane. Like pick it up or attempt to put it out of its misery.
Don’t kill it, I think, forcefully.
I imagine having to explain to everyone, (even though he speaks English): you don’t understand, he knows animals. He knows life. He used to milk buffalo!
Dad, wait.
Dad! Wait!
(Bird, wait!)
He’s hovering. I see him reach within himself and remove a handkerchief, eyes not leaving the still bird. Passersby are kind of laughing towards the faceoff.
I beg him internally not to touch the bird. Leave it. I don’t want the kids to see that. (Doesn't he know not to bring death near?)
In the distance behind me, the rollercoaster is rumbling upward, and I know it’s paused, at the top, just before the screams.
I finally reach him, a little out of breath. He’s on his haunches, adjusting his glasses.
“Hey, Dad. Let’s get some ice cream,” I speak to him like I’m his camp counselor.
But he waves me off without looking up. “I don’t need any.” (By this he means, you know I can’t handle dairy.) “I’ll just come find you,” he says.
Not knowing what else I can do, I lead the boys away, feigning concern over our lunch detritus. Back within the current of the Boardwalk, I turn back towards him, fearful, like Orpheus.
This time, those recurring benches strike me as contrived, exclusive. Like, my name is too real for this bench, too long; my love for this place too mysterious and Shakespearean, involving a journey.
I feel such pride that I am able to handle the boys on this outing, alone; that I took the day off to care for my father when my siblings live far away, fulfilling a duty that our mom would be proud of—in fact, carrying it for all of us.
All of this is shot down when he says to me, nonchalantly, “It’s not good, you know, to love them so much.”
He says this matter-of-factly, like someone loved him too much or maybe not enough. Separately, but no less offensive, is the implication that I am giving something that is somehow undeserved. Either way, it breaks my heart. And again. I don’t know what to say.
When he sits down at a colorfully painted table, I am reminded of how compact his life is now, as his wallet and pen tap against each other in his shirtfront pocket, how he instinctively guards it when he leans forward or lowers himself into a chair. All his possessions on him.
I marshal a trayful of iced drinks and sandwiches in paper baskets. As my younger son chews his burger, ketchup glops immediately paint his cheeks. His head moves with a rollerblader and then changes direction to follow a man walking with an iguana on his back. We may as well be in Algiers.
His gaping eyes freeze at something, suddenly arrested. In excitement, he turns to us and says, “look! Look!” (I have to smile at this because it sounds like Yook! Yook!)
There is a small crowd forming in front of the pizza shack, just in front of us. They’re all considering something on the ground and others give it a long glance too, as they walk by.
It’s a bird—a seagull, and it’s sitting against the food stand, nonplussed by the attention. My boys find this wondrous.
A bird, like this, up-close! It turns its head sharply, squeezes its eyes slowly and opens them again.
We return to our lunch and as one son rattles off seagull facts, I can tell my dad is tired, worn out by silly child talk.
With two bites left of his burger, my older son stands up suddenly. “I have to go bathroom.” This is an announcement, but also when he makes bathroom a verb, it’s a ticking time bomb.
My dad does not offer to take them, as if to confirm to me, This is a YOU-problem.
“OK,” I say, rising, shoving the rest of my fries into my mouth. “Dad, can you…” I gesture for him to protect the food remnants from seagulls.
Walking back from the restrooms, I consider the ocean, now to my left.
What could possibly frighten while gazing out at this unbroken horizon? Doesn’t my dad, like me, inevitably imagine the globe, our globe? Can we possibly share that one wonderful thought?
From a few meters away, I can tell the bird is still there by the small crowd noticing it from afar.
If it hasn’t moved, it can’t be a good thing. I had stayed hopeful, imagining a pregnant mother bird, but now, I realize with a pang, it is dying. It’s the resignation that gives it away, the search for comfort and grace, for a nice quiet spot. That slow blink of pain.
My dad is not at our pink table, where our napkins flutter, daring to lift off. I scan and discover that he’s leaning over the bird, close.
I pick up our pace, nervous, suddenly.
Birds call out overhead; are they made aware somehow?
I don’t know why, but I worry he will do something insane. Like pick it up or attempt to put it out of its misery.
Don’t kill it, I think, forcefully.
I imagine having to explain to everyone, (even though he speaks English): you don’t understand, he knows animals. He knows life. He used to milk buffalo!
Dad, wait.
Dad! Wait!
(Bird, wait!)
He’s hovering. I see him reach within himself and remove a handkerchief, eyes not leaving the still bird. Passersby are kind of laughing towards the faceoff.
I beg him internally not to touch the bird. Leave it. I don’t want the kids to see that. (Doesn't he know not to bring death near?)
In the distance behind me, the rollercoaster is rumbling upward, and I know it’s paused, at the top, just before the screams.
I finally reach him, a little out of breath. He’s on his haunches, adjusting his glasses.
“Hey, Dad. Let’s get some ice cream,” I speak to him like I’m his camp counselor.
But he waves me off without looking up. “I don’t need any.” (By this he means, you know I can’t handle dairy.) “I’ll just come find you,” he says.
Not knowing what else I can do, I lead the boys away, feigning concern over our lunch detritus. Back within the current of the Boardwalk, I turn back towards him, fearful, like Orpheus.
*
On the drive home, the moon is low and glorious, a goddess standing guard against the navy night.
The kids are asleep, crumpled against each other’s car seats. We’re all sun-exhausted. I want to get home to my husband, have a glass of wine. My dad clears his throat. This means talk to me.
“What were you doing, with that bird, Dad?” I half-chuckle, but then I swallow, afraid.
He is looking out his window. Finally he says, “No, I was only trying to calm it with—I thought if I stood there quietly, gave it my shadow, perhaps the darkness would comfort it a little, make it feel less alone.”
I respond with, “mhm,” and it’s staccato, language-less, just an acknowledging; it does not betray deeper thoughts.
I understand that he stayed, wordlessly, until death came, and that without a cure per se, he simply bore witness. That not turning away was its own gift.
It’s a few exits away from my dad’s house, and only once I confirm that I am the only one still awake in the car, that I fixate. On what must have been a final journey—taking a leave, slow and circular, of the endless and vast place where he was most free. A goodbye, hopefully not in pain, but perhaps in longing—one final look towards a sky he’d never live in again.
The kids are asleep, crumpled against each other’s car seats. We’re all sun-exhausted. I want to get home to my husband, have a glass of wine. My dad clears his throat. This means talk to me.
“What were you doing, with that bird, Dad?” I half-chuckle, but then I swallow, afraid.
He is looking out his window. Finally he says, “No, I was only trying to calm it with—I thought if I stood there quietly, gave it my shadow, perhaps the darkness would comfort it a little, make it feel less alone.”
I respond with, “mhm,” and it’s staccato, language-less, just an acknowledging; it does not betray deeper thoughts.
I understand that he stayed, wordlessly, until death came, and that without a cure per se, he simply bore witness. That not turning away was its own gift.
It’s a few exits away from my dad’s house, and only once I confirm that I am the only one still awake in the car, that I fixate. On what must have been a final journey—taking a leave, slow and circular, of the endless and vast place where he was most free. A goodbye, hopefully not in pain, but perhaps in longing—one final look towards a sky he’d never live in again.