BlueBird

Famille

MY FATHER was a strong man.

On rainy days, my father always opened the front door. No matter how many time my mother begged him not to, the scent of petrichor bleed itself in our house most days than not. I could hear the floorboards of my childhood home giving out in groans under my feet each time I followed him. My hand would reached for his, stretching and stretching until my little palm gripped nothing but the tepid air. So from under my arms, my father lifted me high and carried me in his. He'd peer out, his earthy eyes blinking droplets misted through our screen door. His hair, the same ebony waves I inherited, clung in loops along his forehead.

"Do you hear that, mon ange?" he said, holding me—his angel— close. I shook my head, my face pinched as a prune. My father laughed, deep and warm. It made me do the same.

"La pluie?" The rain? The question in my voice was clear.

"Yes, but what else?" 

I closed my eyes. The rain flooding my face was loud, but the sound of the birds and the outside grew louder. I puckered my lips and blew a sad imitation of the song, giggling. I peeked through one eye, watching my father's face grace me with a grin.

"Very good. We must be very thankful that it rains, Hiver. It's what make things grows. The old must makes room for the new. Do you understand?"

No, being so young I did not understand. I knew nothing of growing old or renewal. Looking back, one only wishes they were bright enough to understand, but I had only good memory.

The memory held me rigid at the door now. Our home had been long since uncared for, the walls coated in dust and peeling paint. The smell chocked me, my palm rubbing along my chest, trying to soothe my breathing somehow. But no balm could blur the sounds of my parents fighting in the hallway. My mother wailing, playing a losing game of tug-a-war as my father made his way to me. I did not know this man, haggard and cold. His shoulders were taut and his posture rod-straight, no longer the relaxed back of my younger days. 

"Pick it up." He said, only once, motioning to the suitcase by the wall. There were no wheels on it and the red paint no longer shined but it was mine. I bought it for the last summer before—ah before she died.

I bent down, the suitcase rattling at my side. My eyes glued themselves to the latch. Stay calm.

"Viktor, je t'en prie—" My mother pleaded once more. The struggle between them as he held her back is enough for me to rest my hand on the knob.   "She is just a child—our child. S-she is the only one, the only one now. Do not do this."

To this my father turned and said only one thing. "We have no children, Odeline."

Then he waited, waited for me to leave.

I had no control. The air tasted funny, dry and dead. No matter how much I swallowed it never felt enough. My hand gripped the knob so tight my veins were raised high. Yet, I couldn't do it. Not with this tremble in my body— not with them here to see me go.

So he gave me no choice. This man who put his hand over my own. This man who opened the door, wide to the wind and rain. "Get out!" His anger wild as the outdoor he pushed me into. "Get out!" he said, as I  stumbled, my mother's wails became my own. I could not obey.  My hands slick from falling, gripped the closed door. I pulledandkickedandpoundedandscreamed.

The door did not open. The rain did not stop. The birds still sang. The wind still blew. The neighbors rested in their homes.

And I—I was forced to see I had none.