like a double helix, we are twisted

He made sure to put on his suspenders and button his shirt all the way, first. And with his trembling left hand, he reached to wipe dust off the television.

"Dad..." I started, but trailed off knowing that whatever I said would be construed to be criticism.

"I need to turn off the lights in the living room, then we can go," he said.

"I did it," I lied.

"Okay," he said, "let's go." Slowly I lead him out to the car, unsure whether I should physically lead him or not.

"I'll drive, okay?" he said absentmindedly.

"NO. YOU'RE NOT DRIVING IF YOU THINK YOU JUST HAD A HEART ATTACK!" I screamed at him, by this point visibly agitated. He didn't reply, refreshingly enough. I squeezed my fists closed and clenched my jaw tight. Just be easy, just be helpful, I mumbled to myself as I turned the key in the ignition. The engine rolled over, but a little more quietly than usual. Cautiously.

The car ride was mostly silent. No one else was on the road, and that speaks for any stray cats and raccoons, too. If you ask me, it was all the night's silent bow of respect to the fragile nature of the moment. A decomposing relationship put on hiatus.

About halfway to the hospital, I reached over and held his hand. He squeezed it. I did not speak. Situation: relation.

Several minutes later, he said, "I can't die just yet," but that was it, there wasn't anything else.

I didn't respond, but I took my hand away under the guise that I had to shift gears.







with love and squalor,
ekw