Ayleen Lindahl: Writer

His voice croaked with my name and I bolted upright. Blinking away my sleepiness, I felt the world collapse and suffocate me at his next words.

“Aya… Dad’s dead.”
I didn’t believe him.                       
 

I know now I didn’t want to believe him. How could anything like this happen in my family? It was a mistake. Nothing could kill my father. He was unbreakable.

He told me then that there was a police officer at the door, and to get up. He closed my door and I scrambled out of bed. Tossing a robe over my pajamas, I rushed out into the living room and confronted this unwanted person in my home.

She stood there, her uniform clean and crisp, her face set in a sad expression. She held her hat in both her hands and I actually felt bad for her. In the back of my mind, I wondered how she could do this part of her job. How could she tell a family that their father had died? 
 

Alan held a plastic bag in his fist, his knuckles turning white. I reached out and took the bag, opening it to find my fathers things. Undeniable truth. There was his belt, his wallet and a pen.

His pen had been a silver ‘unbreakable’ kind. It was to withstand water and pressure. I can remember him always having that thing in his pocket and he would come after me when I would use it and not hand it back right away. Yet, this pen’s silver body was bent in half, the metal casing speckled with dried blood. I suspect they either didn’t notice or they thought it was ok. All the items were soaked and I couldn’t understand why. I found out later they had to keep my father cooled in the hot Texas sun by pouring water over him.

The woman with the stone face told the grim story, that somehow a truck on a corner had hit my father about fifteen minutes away from our home. My father had taken the motorcycle that morning.
 

No suffering. Instant death.
That damn motorcycle.
 

The policewoman handed us a card and left after our reassurances that we would tell my mother. When she shut the door behind her, I looked at my brother, tears threatening but not giving way. Alan went to the phone, his big hands fumbling as his thick fingers tried to punch the numbers.
 

My heart beating, I gently took the phone and dialed the number. The secretary picked up and I asked her to get my mom. After what seemed like hours, she finally picked up.

“Mom, come home. Now.”

She asked what was wrong and I felt she needed to be home when told. I repeated, and she said she’d be home in fifteen minutes.

I hung up and felt my knees give out. Sinking to the floor, I crawled to where my brother was sitting against the couch and we held each other. We would never see dad again, and fleeting images of my father lying dead on the road brought my tears and I sobbed against Alan.

We waited. My chest constricted against my heart as I imagined the terrible moment in life where I would have to tell my mother that her husband was dead. I saw my mothers beautiful face take my brother and I in and suddenly wail out with her own soul at the news. Falling down to her knees next to us, my brother and I held onto her with our lives and love.

I can now relive this moment with a sad wilting in my heart, and a need to share. The worst moment was when I found I could not remember the last moment I had seen my father. I worked long shifts and would come home exhausted and he would do the same. There was a rare moment when we would run into each other and I felt as if I were a horrible person for not remembering. Yet, now I can remember his grin, his red head from mowing the lawn in the Texas sun, his farmer tan I would tease him about, and his ever-present toothpick in his mouth. I loved him dearly, and never really told him so. I regret that to this day. I am sure he knows now, for I think of him daily and love him deeply in my heart, after all, he was my dad and I’m his little girl.