Chapter 2: Willow
It was by all accounts a beautiful autumn day; so beautiful it was offensive. I wanted the day to reflect how I really felt and I wanted the sky to darken in varying shades of dark indigo and angry amethyst. I wanted wind to violently force clouds across the sky. I wanted it to storm and to thunder as if it could match the silent screams I felt inside. I wanted rain to fall from the heavens like grief had poured out from my broken heart.
I was by myself in presence and in thought.
Alone.
I repeated the cold, despondent word to myself; the meaning seemed so final and forlorn, just as I was. There was a slight breeze and desiccated amber leaves fell from their branches. As they drifted I noted the ones already decaying on the pavement near my feet. At one time those leaves had been nothing more than a bud beginning its phase through life. I knelt down and gently scooped one of them up. Its form was delicate and at one time no doubt vibrant with pigment and composition. I traced the contour and closed my palm around it, rendering it into dust. I blew and watched as the particles dispersed into thin air.
All I knew at that moment was that I didn’t want that cycle of life and death to claim one of my own, my only one.
I stood there for a moment and brushed a single tear from my cheek. I couldn’t even muster the energy to spill the floodgates that boiled under the surface. My throat burned but I had to do it. With painful resolve I mustered what little strength I had and I walked into the funeral home. I lowered my head until my chin was tucked into the warmth of my patterned plush scarf. My hands were clenched but they were hidden inside the pockets of my red wool coat. I was trying to conceal my emotions from revealing themselves physically. I barely noticed my surroundings but the interior of the reformed Victorian home was dark and depressing. Adding to the dismal ambiance that threatened to grip me in its bleak embrace were the dimly lit sconces. My feet, enclosed in small black boots, walked upon a dark wood floor and a carpet of deep burgundy. Even the paintings were dark and were showcased in ostentatious frames. There was no life in this space, no warmth, no sound - only the smell of death and despair.
I was led into a room where my dad lay in state. The director, a strange yet older man, stood by me. I politely asked to be left alone. He seemed unsure--I was so young after all--but he did as I asked and closed the door behind him.
I stood there and stared, knowing this would be the last time that I would ever see my dad, and there he was, just steps away - the motionless form of Connor Alan Scott - my friend, my dad, and the only family I ever really had.
My voice couldn’t reach him, my tears couldn’t touch him and although he was before me, he wasn’t really there. His empty shell overwhelmed me. It looked like him, but it wasn’t the essence of him. I couldn’t believe the finality of it. It couldn’t be happening. I wanted it to be a nightmare from which I could wake and have everything the way it used to be.
He was so silent and still. His brown eyes were closed forever and his mouth was incapable of soothing my sorrow with the comfort and familiarity of his strong yet temperate voice.
I walked up to him. My heart was pounding from the grief that engulfed me. I wanted my heart to touch his, as if I could shock the life back into him. I swayed and held myself, endlessly repeating to him that I was sorry and that I loved him. The stillness spoke volumes and the silence gave way to despair.
Oh God Dad, you can’t really be gone…
I lowered my head and covered my heart with my hand. It was then, in my sorrow, that I realized how alone I was and how nothing would be the same again.
I silently prayed, took one final look at my dad’s face, turned, and walked to the door. I hesitated for the briefest of moments. I walked out, leaving his shell behind but carrying his memory in my heart.