The Original Six.

Dead Dad and Cereal

        My Perspective

                   They say some people remember an event or dream down to every little detail. They also say the mind has a way of making stuff up to fill in empty gaps of a memory you may have. This was in no way made up.

                    I was six when it happened, and trust me, I didn't give enough shits about it back then because I had no clue what was going on. It was near Christmas time. My mind was, "Presents! Fat old bearded man! More presents!". My sister, brother and I were still in school and proceeded the morning as we normally would. Usually we would eat at school if we didn't have time in the morning, this morning we had a lot of time. Wait, let me back track some so you understand.

                One day, while my sister and I were watching television in our shared bright pink and green room, my then, "Aunt Jennifer", came into the room excited and smiling happily. "Girls, I have someone here to see you," she exclaimed as happy as I had seen her. Being two little kids we ran out excitedly only to stop dead in our tracks when we saw who was on our couch. Our beautiful safe brown couch. The cushions began getting flat and pushed in because so many people had sat on it. I loved that sofa. Who was it? Of course my snoopy sister knew he was coming. The oblivious one, aka me, had absolutely no clue. Fuck I had been to see the man many times before and for some reason nothing was clicking with who he was. He reached for us in attempts for an embrace. Paige willingly hugged him, as I was a little more reluctant. "Are you guys happy to see your daddy?" Daddy? This man was my...oh yeah! Duh. I hugged him tightly. I had never seen him outside of prison before. He seemed a lot sicker, thinner outside of it. His body sunk in and it was quite a sad sight. I was in my night clothes, they were pink fringe and floral light summer pajamas, mind you it was winter. My sister had the same ones except hers were purple. She still has hers to this day...I however don't. We each sat on a knee and leaned in smiling for a picture. I of course never realized that would be the only picture I ever took with my father.

               Weeks followed and life with him at home became normal and everything was good. My sister and I knew he was sick. He actually smelled like death, if death has a smell. Looking back...God what I would do to just take that smell in a little longer just one more time. He was always so damn worried about it. "Now..girls, if if my breath smells bad, please just tell me, okay?" It was his medicine making it do that, everyone said. I knew he was dying then, and I know now. He had big lumps in his neck, I never knew what it was. "Tumors", he told me. I wasn't a dumb kid, I knew tumors meant cancer, cancer meant death. Never once was my dad sad around me. Granted I hadn't spent nearly enough time with him, he was always happy for us. I can't imagine the pain he went through as a father knowing he would never beat the first heart breaker up, he'd never walk us down the aisle or witness his grand babies grow. I remember, every time we went to visit him, he played this hand slapping game. The one where you hold your hands out and someone goes to slap them and you have to pull away fast, you know? Now whenever I see kids playing it, I think of him. He may have been in prison, but my father was a good man. The last time he was in jail, he missed my birth, but more importantly, he took the full blame of his and my egg donors wrong doing so she could get out of jail to have her baby, me. Anyways. Flash forward back to my spot before, the morning of.

                   My Grandma is a psychic of some sorts. She asked my sister and I to go down into the basement, where my father was staying and say goodbye, for the day of course. She gave my Aunt Jennifer a bowl of cereal in a purple plastic bowl with the attached straw to bring to him and all three of us walked down. I was in this damn pink puffy winter coat, my sister had a blue one and I swear we could never get rid of those, we had them for five years. I hugged him, and then Paige. We smiled and told him we loved him, but he wasn't awake. I still wonder now if he ever heard us, I hope he did. My Aunt Jennifer put the cereal on the table next to him and we walked upstairs. If I had known this was the last time I would ever see him, I would have made him wake up so I could hear him say he loved me too, I never got to hear it.

                      We had this neighbor, up the street, her name was Mary. Paige was friends with her daughter Missy. We went to her birthday party every year and without fail she had a pink iced cookie cake. The morning of, my grandma packed us two little McDonald's jugs of milk, they were saved and reused. She poured cereal into two bags and put them inside of a green and a yellow plastic bowl with an attached straw, like the one my daddy got. I didn't understand anything. I heard, "He isn't waking up.", "Will you walk the girls across the street to Miss Mary's?" And off we were. Coats and hats, book bag too big for our bodies, onward we went to venture out to Miss Mary's.

                   Her kitchen was in the back of her house and the table sat under a window. She set our bowls up and poured the cereal and milk. I never ate. I sat by the window, which had the weird design so you couldn't see anything but colors. I saw red flashing lights and I heard sirens. I ran to the window to see it was coming from my house. I was scared and worried, what was going on? As I saw someone coming out on a gurney, Miss Mary pulled me away and assured me everything was going to be okay. She lied, big time.

                A week later, one by one family members came into our room and spoke highly of my father. Last in was my Aunt Jennifer, who I now call my mom. She explained to me as anyone would to a kid, "Daddy was in pain", "Daddy's in heaven now", "He'll watch over you," things like that.

             On December, 16th, 2006, Owen Wilson Delawder Jr. died of a massive stroke caused by a cancer he had. It took years for his own daughter to even cry. That daughter being me.

             Christmas came that year and the last present I had opened, was the biggest. Addressed on it was, "To Morgan, Love Daddy". It was my first guitar. He had always promised to teach my sister and I how to play. I hadn't opened that guitar for ten years. I refused any musical talent besides a violin until that point. One day I had this random passion to learn piano, so my mom bought me one and I taught myself how to play. I kept looking at that damn guitar, the sides ripped from old age and moves. I opened it properly and strung a few chords. It was rough and out of tune. I looked up a few tutorials and began to teach myself. While this guitar may look like a ukulele on me, my hands are so small it fits perfectly when I strum and do different notes. My family says my egg donor wasn't very musical. I can proudly say that while my dad can't see me physically grow up, I know he's listening every time I strum that guitar.

                The end of the day came quick the day my dad went to the hospital. My Aunt Jennifer sent me down for something in the basement, a purple bowl with an attached straw, fruit loops untouched, soggy, dead.

--- A chapter dedicated to my father, while I dedicate my life, this is a small written piece..if you were ever wondering what was going on from my point of view. ---