promises.

12

I stumbled over my feet as I tripped over a tombstone that lay on the ground, all alone in the darkness.

hm, sounded exactly like someone I knew.

I opened my phone, searching for a flashlight while a text appeared across the screen from Nathan.

'hey just wanted to remind you that band practice is Friday at 6:00 pm at Joey's house. thanks. xoxo'

'thanks man, I'll be there xo' I replied to him with shaky hands.

The light shone on the tombstones, unrecognizable names and dates appeared on the stone figures, except for one, one that stood behind a tree, the stone was a grayish, black and very very hard.

'Jonathan Oliver Smith. 1968- 1999.'

attached to it, it had a picture of who must have been my dad, he was wearing vetran's clothing and was carrying an American flag. he had a smile on his face, yet he still looked discouraged.

I removed the photo from the stone, and flipped it to the other side. Written neatly in bold, cursive letters was.

January 21, 1997.

this was taken two years before he died.

I slipped the photo into my backpack before placing a yellow flower that grew beside the stone onto the place that the picture was.

I stormed off, and out of the cemetery, satisfied with my discoveries.

It was nearly one a.m. before I opened the front door very cautiously and quietly. I tip toed in through the front corridor and up the stairs, into Riley's room.

I removed my leather jacket and converse shoes before collapsing down on the New York Islanders blanket someone layed out on the floor for me, along with a big pillow and my teddy bear.

The room was too dark to even see my hand in front of my face, so I doubted that if I looked, I wouldn't be able to see Riley's devil eyes glaring at me.

There was something about my dad that made me wish I could meet him now. Maybe it was the fact that I'd never grown up with a father, or that I could have a best friend father figure. Or maybe I could have someone that would accept me and understand me.

Dad, wherever you are, please come back.

He's dead, Oliver. He's not coming back.

Fuck you, you're right.

He's not coming back.

I'd heard that from everyone a lot lately. Every time I ranted about my father, they all said to me

"He's not coming back. Get over it. You barely knew him. Move on."

I got so used to hearing it, that it was like a hello to me, so pure and natural, no inner feeling, just a simple phrase to start a conversation.

I fell asleep then, the picture beside me, my satisfaction deep within me, and my teddy bear cuddled in my arms.

I slept better on Riley's floor than I ever did alone on my own bed.