Untouchable

Baby Please Come Home

They're saying deck the halls

I've always hated December - the whole damn month. Every single bad thing that could happen, happened in that month, and everything in that month, surrounded my mother.

On the sixth of December she was found, and I was born. On the ninth she passed away, and her funeral was held three weeks later. Her birthday was on the thirteenth, and on the twentieth she married my dad.

He was always so gloomy this month. I would walk by his closed bedroom door, and hear his muffled sobs. He would sit around the house with red puffy eyes that never trailed from the ground. In the earlier days there was plenty of support around this time, but that eventually faded. I guess people expected his grief to fade after such a long time.

It's not Christmas at all

I don't even know why I bothered remembering my birthday. I remember once when I reminded my dad it was my birthday. He had forgotten, and I had hoped that something would change if I said that. The face he gave me was still imprinted in my mind.

I walk around the house, hoping that maybe someone would remember my tenth birthday. That is a big milestone - double digits. No one at school remembered, and I haven't gotten a phone call yet from my grandparents. My dad hasn't said anything, but maybe if I reminded him he would, give me a hug or something.

I find him in the kitchen, searching through one of the cabinets. I climb up on a stool at the island.

"What are you doing Daddy?"

No answer.

"Do you know what day it is?" I say a little louder - maybe he didn't hear me.

I hear the clinking of bottles stop, and he turns to look at me expectantly. I feel intimidated now.

"It's, my birthday," I say a little quieter.

The look on his face is louder than any words he's screamed. His lips are pursed together, nostrils flared. His eyebrows are tilted, eyes are stone, and the lump in his throat bobs.

I look down. I had angered him. I wait for him to throw a handful of words at me, but all there is, is silence. And it's louder than anything I've ever heard.

Before anything worse can happen, I go to my room, and cry till I'm asleep.

After that, I never pressed anyone for a 'happy birthday' again. When I had gotten a phone, only then did I get that special message. From Uncle Matt, Mike and Ian, and Carly. Only did Carly's message prove of care.

The sound of the bus coming to stop tore my attention. I looked out the windows - this was my stop. I got up, and made my way out into the fresh, but cold air. I stuffed my hands in my pockets, blew a puff of air. Winter was settling in, and we were in the midst of a cold snap. I braced myself for the cold walk ahead - the cemetery was still a few blocks away.

I tried my best to not look at any of the shops. They were decorated in tinsel and had festive scenery in the windows. I pushed past a group of children in awe over a 'Santa's Toy Shop' scene. I rolled my eyes at a lady who gave me a dirty look.

Soon I reached the black fence that bordered the cemetery, and followed till I found the entrance.

I pressed the metal gate and heard the familiar squeal of the iron. Over the years the gate had rusted, and in consequence made an ear splitting squeal in protest whenever you tried to move it.

I made my way through the cemetery, until the familiar hill settled into view. I climbed to the top, and there she rested. I placed a bundle of hydrangeas on her grave; I had learned from multiple websites those were her favourite kind of flower - I shuttered at the fact I had to google my own moms favourite flower.