Arizona Sunrises

Chapter One

I'm not exactly sad about my mother's passing. Well, not as sad as I should be. I feel like I should be the way my father is. My father doesn't cry much, in fact, the first time I've ever seen him cry is when Mom died. But nowadays, it happens much more frequently. I know that with death, grieving is a natural response but it still strikes me as odd when I hear a spontaneous sob. Sometimes it's completely random too. Sometimes he'll be chopping up vegetables for dinner and he'll sit down and just lose it. It's not the onions. I think I should feel like that. It's not that I'm not expressing the feeling, it's that I don't even feel it. I know I miss her. I just don't miss her enough. I know I miss something.

Anyways, I'm sorry for being rude, my name is Connor. I'm your average white boy. About six feet tall with light brown hair that nearly always is in a quiff. I'm pretty scrawny, and I almost perfectly fit the description of the gross boys who always smell like cheese and spend all summer on their Xboxes. I at least shower and smell decent. Not to sound cocky but I'm a little more well kept than most of them anyways. I wear these god awful hipster glasses as well. I like them, but at least once a week someone asks if they're real. Personally, I don't understand the sudden obsession everyone has with glasses. I feel like I'm getting off topic again.

I stand up and stretch, hearing my back crack. Ouch. It doesn't actually hurt, but it sounds like it would, you know? I vacate my room after what seems to have been hours and go downstairs to where my Dad sits paying bills at the kitchen table. I hate to see him like this. I mean, no one likes to pay bills but he looks absolutely miserable. He looks tired. He has recently. His blue eyes aren't bright anymore, and he looks older. He doesn't look like a man of thirty-nine. I pass by him on my way to the kitchen, knowing that there's nothing I can say that will make it better. I grab a banana and retreat back to my room. My room is nice, I have my bed, which is just a small double bed that my parents had in their old apartment in the corner to the right of the door with a nightstand next to it, my desk next to the window that is across from the door, and my closet, which is on the wall to the left of my door. It's quite constricted but that's what makes it cozy. The walls are a maroon color, the whole house is painted in shades of red, orange and yellow. I feel like the house shares a color scheme with the red rocks of Arizona. Out of my window, I can see a small creek, which I enjoy walking to, and some more houses. Arizona's a really cool place.

I guess it would help to have some sort of background information on me if I'm gonna spill my guts to you. Basically, like I said, regulation white boy. I don't play basketball or anything, so I'm not regular in that sense. I like music, I play bass, so I'm like a slightly musical white boy. I've got a few friends, but mostly acquaintances. I've got this friend Luna from my English class and my childhood friends Bryan and Zach. Luna's what I guess I'd call alternative, she's got hair so blond it's almost white, well, it is white, and she wears these high top canvas sneakers all the time. My friend Bryan plays guitar and he wears flannels a lot. I don't know why I'm telling you about the fashion choices of all my friends, but maybe it'll give you better visual, you know? Zach's El Salvadorean, and he doesn't hesitate on advertising that. It's kind of funny actually. To continue my trend of telling you about all my friends' fashion choices, Zach wears shirts advertising punk bands on a nearly daily basis. So do I though. But Zach's, like, actually punk, he's got a mohawk that he can really pull off. I hate myself when I see his hair. I'm the regulation white boy and Bryan's the sad acoustic-loving boy. I can hardly remember how the three of us found each other but it's some wonder that we did.

Around six, when we usually eat dinner, I decide to help my Dad cook dinner. However, when I descend the stairs, I find that he is nowhere to be found in the kitchen or adjoining living room. I suppose maybe he's asleep or something. He's been doing that a lot lately too. I imagine that when my Dad gets old I'll have to care for him like I am right now. I wouldn't mind in the slightest, my dad and I are very close. I pull some pasta out of the cupboard as well as some peas from the freezer. I can cook, but nothing elaborate.

As I'm putting the lightly seasoned pasta, carrots and peas onto plates, my dad emerges from his room. "I made dinner," I say proudly, hoping he might smile.

But he doesn't. He runs a hand through his brown hair and sits down, only to put his head down in his hands. I bring the plates to the table and set one in front of him expectantly. Sometimes, I want to scream. I want to because he's not there. He's sitting in front of me but he's ten light years away mentally. We each take our first bites in silence; I anxiously glance around the room. "It's good," he compliments, "what recipe did you use?"

"I..." I mumble, I'm taken aback by how animated he suddenly is. "I didn't. I just threw it together."

"I'm sorry I haven't been the best of fathers lately."

"It's fine," I say quietly. It's not fine.

He sets his fork down, "No, it's not. Why don't we go to a baseball game or something this weekend?"

I look at him, searching for signs of demonic possession. "Sure," I murmur, still skeptical.

He does the dishes and we sit down to watch a movie, since it's a Friday night. You'd think I'd be hanging out with my friends or something, like a typical teenager, but since my mother's passing we've picked up a tradition of watching a movie on Friday nights. From Mom's death I've learned that I need to cherish people more. Life is fragile.