"One Life, One Story, One Memory,
One breath, one passage, one mind,
That's all we'll ever be.
Nothing more, nothing less.
One Life, One Story, One Memory,
One person, one book, one thought,
We are who we are,
A person of our own."
-Linden James
One life, one story, one memory. That's what my father used to tell me. He told me that up until his death bed one year ago. When he was forty-two he developed a brain tumor. I know it wasn't his fault but I held a little bit of resentment towards him because he left my very pregnant mother of five months, a ten year old son, a six year old son, and a very depressed sixteen year old daughter, me.
I shake the thoughts from my head and look at the poem on the bigger of the three graves I was looking at. I had written that poem for my father, I guess in a way to show that he helped me. I shift my eyes to the two smaller graves, the twins, a girl and a boy! I was so happy to be getting two new baby siblings, but with unfortunate luck they were still born. But my mom wouldn't let them take them away until we all held them and they had names. Baby Phoebee Pearl James and Baby Brett Max James. I remember crying so hard the night before the funeral so I wouldn't cry when I saw them. But I still did.
"The smallest caskets are always the heaviest." My dad told me once. I've remembered it ever since.
I pull away from my memories and look up at the sky, it was light gray. The smell of rain fills my nose. I smile slightly, Dad always loved the rain.
When I was younger, around the age of seven, I was scared of rain storms, mainly because there would be thunder and lighting. But Dad? Oh he loved them. One day there thunder was so bad I hid underneath my bed until he came home. I ran screaming into his arms. Instead of taking me further into our house he walked straight out the door. He put me on the porch and started jumping. I got closer from my confusion and saw that he was jumping into puddles. I giggled when he splashed me with some water and joined in on the fun. I forgot all about the thunder and lighting and learned to love the rain. Dancing and jumping into the puddles became our thing.
"Look, just for you Dad!" I whisper.
My father, David Linden James whom I'm named after, started showing signs of his brain tumor not long after the babies funeral.
I remember the day I found out he was sick. Being pulled out of school and the effect it had. I was in my second hour math class when it happened.
"Linden James to the office please." The voice came through the intercom in my class. I looked puzzled but got up anyway.
The teacher handed me my assignments and away I went to the office wondering what I was needed for.
On my way down I stopped at my locker to grab my textbooks to finish my assignments in my other classes. As I did so I bumped a picture off of the locker door. I quickly turned around to pick it up but a stray student wandering around picked it up for me.
"Thank you, Thomas." I said quickly.
"Is that your dad?" He asked and handed the picture back to me.
It was my favorite picture of my father and me, I was about fourteen, I think, and he was tickling me and my mom snapped the picture right as I laughed.
