spectator. [hs]

four

"I can't believe that detective," dad commented, before turning the wheel. The car bounced on the uneven, gravely road. We were on the way home from meeting Detective Wallace at the local cafe. He ordered himself a decaf coffee before giving my dad a full-thirty-minute layout of what would happen in the coming weeks. "I know he's just doing his job but really.. he's defending me like.. like I did it."

"You didn't." I said firmly, which he seemed to be thankful for. I wanted him to know I trusted him.

This wasn't like I just wanted to trust him because he was my own father. I trusted him because I know who he is. I know my own dad, and I know how he is when he's angry, furious, upset. The closest he would go to hurting anyone is grunting under his breath before walking away.

"We'll see how it goes tomorrow, won't we?" I could hear the annoyance in his voice. He was very unsettled by all this sudden chaos and unsolved questions.

Placing the car in park, we both stepped out. However, I stopped when I reached the front of the car. "Dad?" He turned my direction, his hands placed in his coat pockets as he gave me his attention at request. "Can I have the keys?"

"I guess so," he retrieved them out of his pocket and tossed them over the hood of the car. "Where to?"

I caught the keys in my right hand, looking down at them. I pressed my fingertip against the end of the key. "Mom." I managed to answer without my voice breaking or cracking in pain.

Instead of saying anything, I could see him half-way smiling my way, before nodding.

I got into the driver's seat, catching a glimpse of him before he vanished into the house. I started up the car, before changing gears. The radio was off, so I switched the button to turn it on. I never liked driving in silence. I always preferred to either talk to whoever was in the car with me or hum along to a tune on the radio. The silence was just plain deafening.

The cemetery was about fifteen minutes away from my house, but it always felt like less.

While I wanted to be going, at the same time, I dreaded it. This made the ride there feel like no time. And now, I was standing at the door to the car. After shutting it behind me, I found myself unable to move. I wanted to. I could see her stone in the distance. It wasn't that tall, but I could still see the yellow flowers I had placed there not too long ago.

    I took short, and very slow steps to her grave. I still couldn't say that word aloud without getting goosebumps.

   Finally, I sat down on the uneven ground, crossing my legs. This time I was using to muster up what I could possibly say to express how I was feeling, I kept reading her name. Irene Grant; March 11th, 1940 - July 19th, 1978

"I never thought I'd have to talk to you like this," I said, dragging my hand through the soft grass. My fingers nuzzled through the individual strands. "Where I would talk, but you wouldn't respond. You always used to respond. And I really loved that."

I could already feel my cheeks burning and I knew there was no reason not to keep this pain in anymore. I was alone now, with her, and I knew I could, and should, release was I was previously trying to keep inside.

"It's so different to wake up and you're not there again, day after day, I just keep thinking it's a bad dream.

And I just can't wake up."

I pulled one of the yellow flowers from the bouquet I had bought before. The color was still vibrant, failing to lose it's saturation. Just like my mom. Even on her worst days, she never lost herself. Her personality never drifted off, and came back when happiness returned. She kept her positivity and optimism with her like a backpack.