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chapter one
forget me too
TORONTO, CANADA
Six months is a long time.
There are some occasions where six months can fly by and feel like nothing, but not when you were missing somebody as much as I was.
Not when it's been five months since the only father you ever knew was lowered into the ground and six since he took his last breath.
My pale hand shook as I wrapped my fingers around the golden doorknob, my red fingernails tapping nervously. Nobody had set foot in this room since the funeral. My mother was too distraught to even walk past the door to the lounge without breaking into tears. Steeling myself, I pushed the door open, my thick socks stirring up dust as I stepped foot into the dark room. The blinds had been drawn tightly since I came home from the hospital in tears that night. The nurses had to have me physically removed from the room when it happened. I refused to let got of the side of the metal bed.
I was three years old when my mother met Yuki Morizono. The love of her life. I was six when they got married. Yuki was the only father I ever knew, and as far as I was concerned, he was the only one I needed. I never took his last name, neither did my mother. We were both as white as it comes, so taking an Asian last name wouldn't have been a good look for us. Yuki was a good sport, opting to hyphenate to Morizono-Wagner instead.
I was twenty-four when he was originally diagnosed with liver cancer. Twenty-five when we moved from Albuquerque to Toronto. Twenty-six, going on twenty-seven when he died.
To this day I still avoid hospitals if I can. I haven't been back to Mount Sinai since.
As I pushed the door open, a strong gust of wind blew over Lake Ontario, bringing the smell of the saltwater, as well as the freezing cold air slicing down the hallway form the open window near the linen closet.
An omen, I thought to myself slowly. Reason enough not to go back into that room.
But I knew I had to. Nobody else was going to go through my father's things. When my mom even mentions it, she cries.
Neither of us are ever going to be the same.
The room is exactly as it was the last time I was in here with dad: the stack of vinyl records on the coffee table, my limited edition pressing of FANDOM by Waterparks sitting on the top. A first edition of Use Your Illusion I by Guns 'n Roses sat on top of it's sleeve on the low teak table. With shaking hands, I slid the vinyl back into it's sleeve, resting it on top of the other stack. I found myself trying to straighten out the stack, because the disorder was making me nervous. All of the stereo equipment had been special ordered from Japan. He'd put hundreds, possibly thousands of U.S dollars into this setup when we still lived in New Mexico.
The tall wardrobe in the corner was the one important thing he brought to America with him when he left Japan. The delicate handiwork had always amazed me. I carefully opened one side of the wardrobe, reaching inside for the thick leather jacket I'd hardly ever seen my father wear. The occasion that sticks out to me the most was about five years ago, when he went back to Japan for a funeral. He never said who's, but I assumed that it had something to do with his old motorcycle club.
