A Dream from My Father
The sun shined brightly in the yellow-colored room and everyone sat at the table with smiles tugging at their mouths. An imperceptible joke was told and I could feel myself laughing like I never had before. Some load that was forever strapped to my back was magically lifted, and I laughed with my mind on better and brighter tomorrows that would surely come after this one. The smell of bacon and grits, a dish created by the pain and love of black families for generations, filled the room with its faintly muggy air. My mom was at the stove, her movement not hampered by the weight of the world, but light and joyful. My dad was at the table, the top of his head peeking out over the newspaper in his hand. He pulled it down for a second and looked at me and I studied his features. His eyes, dark brown and wise, were opened wide and his mouth, filled with clean, ivory teeth, was was on display for me to see. For some reason I was almost shocked at his smile, the slight glint from the sun was somehow foreign to me. He nodded to me and I could feel an emotional wave pass over me. The nod seemed to translate everything: he was proud of me, he was sorry if anything he’d done hurt me, he wanted the best for me, and, most importantly, he loved me. I could feel my cheeks flush as I looked down at the mahogany table in embarrassment, not wanting my father to see the misty sea of joy that now covered my eyes. The scene was perfect, a Lawren Harris oil painting of an idealistic childhood.
A gunshot, a crack from afar carrying a lead casing of death, came flying in through the window settling in my father in front of me. I looked up in horror, the droplets of a once happy, now mortified rain flinging out of my eyes. The big smile was still plastered on his face, in fact, his whole face similar to how it had a second ago. In that second, however, a bullet had lodged itself into his head and blood streaked his large forehead. The light was also gone from his eyes, his stare at me was now cold while the look itself remained unchanged. Another bullet whizzed in hitting him in the neck, the blood rushing out like prisoners in a jailbreak and my father falling over, the lifeless eyes still locked on me.
I awoke to the blue-and-red lights flashing from across the street and sirens blaring a warning to the outside world to stay away. Cold beads of sweat stood petrified on my face as I lay momentarily frozen in bed. I closed my eyes again and for a second saw darkness, a beautiful warm darkness under my eyelids. Then I saw his eyes, that smiling face locked forever to mine, and opened my eyes again. It would be another sleepless night, with the sirens dreadful clamor, in this tragedy without onlookers.