I closed my book, this time without re-inserting my makeshift bookmark--a pink note card with my dad’s writing:

 “You’re doing great Char, I love you

-Love Dad”

I had just finished the Biography of Marylin Monroe By Donald Spoto, and his completed puzzle of her life was encapsulating. I’m not usually one to enjoy biographies but I’m deeply interested in her life, and how society treated--or maybe still treats--the women who closely fit its unattainable standards. 

I love reading, I softly returned the plastic hard-cover novel between two other books on my colorful, overflowing bookshelf. I couldn’t wait to start my next book; they’re the only things that get me through the days recently. For context: My dad just passed away last week, and I haven’t gone back to school yet. I just can’t, our relationship was unbeatable and the hole it left in my heart felt never-ending. I rose from the cave I had constructed of my white chunky knit blanket I had made with my best friends and shuffled over to the window. I could slightly see my reflection amidst the outside view: My silky red curls are in disarray and my eye bags are so big they could hold boulders. Looking past my reflection, I peered through my sunny bedroom window--that filled my room with natural light--at the garden, a flower garden filled with beautiful projections of colors that are unmatched by any mixings of paint. I found myself to be tearing up a bit, looking at the effortless beauty that nature gives. 

“What’s the matter, Charlotte?” It was my mother, leaning against the wooden honey oak door frame of my room.

“I mean, I don’t know, I’m not usually one that lets things bother me. I guess I just haven’t found the closure I need yet after Dad’s passing. I’m trying, I am. I feel like I’m almost back to normal, but not quite. I find peace in the flowers that Dad planted and I look at them every day.” I’m not one to believe in reincarnation, but I think that my dad would come back as violets: his birth flowers. 

“I know Char, it's something that nobody--especially your age--should have to go through. This is not fair to any of us. How about I run to the store and pick up some ice cream for us? Chocolate I assume?”

“That sounds perfect. Thank you, Mom.” My mother and I had become remarkably closer since the tragedy, which I appreciated. It’s not that we were extremely distant beforehand, it was just more that she was working all the time--she’s a nurse--and so I didn’t see her as often as I would have liked. Younger Char remembers her leaving every morning in her colorful scrubs. She said she liked to keep things fun while she was at work so she never wore anything bland. She laced up her purple Brooks that had pink laces and headed out the door, her long straight red hair tied back into a ponytail, with her bangs falling in her face.

 I looked so much like both my parents. My dad had curly hair, which I inherited from him along with his electric green eyes. From my mother, her red hair, freckles, and dainty nose slightly pointed up at the end. Now that my father has passed on, all I see in myself when I look in the mirror is him. 

Dark clouds quickly roll in; It’s raining now, pouring onto the window, making the glass cold against my fingertips. I can see my reflection even more through the window now that the outside appears blurry. I can see him; I see my father. He is staring back at me, with a warm smile and a tear sliding down his cheek. A loud thunderclap slaps me back to reality. It’s not my father, it’s me. I’ll never see him again; he’s gone. 

The truth finally sets in, the closure feels less of a relief and more like a metal gate locking off my ability to feel for him. I can’t see him, I need to see him, he can’t be gone. My brain feels like it’s filled with bees, each of them carrying an intrusive thought that is circling my head without ceasing. Everything is spinning so fast that even the room begins to lift. I find myself running to the front door without giving my legs the command to move. I rip the door open and continue my speed outside, the mud squeezing through my toes and generously coating my feet and black sweatpants. I won’t stop until I reach the flower garden. 

My hair is soaked and now sticks straight. I can’t differentiate between the tears streaming down my face or the rain. Standing there, my legs feel weak and give way--sending me to my knees in the garden. How could this happen to me? The crack that my dad's death left in me had been wedged now into a canyon. My perfectionist personality is now only held together by distracting myself from reality. The rain continues to pour, the tips of my hair now brown with mud but I don’t have the energy to care. I sob at the flowers, begging them to bring him back to me. I can’t do this anymore.

My mom’s gray suburban--caked with the brown sludge of the earth-- comes speeding down our gravel driveway. I swear she hardly put it in park before she came running out to me. She knelt next to me and didn’t say a word. She just hugged me. I felt warmth in her arms, and the thoughts slowed down until I couldn’t feel anything. I was still in pain, but I needed to do this. I needed to stay strong for the sake of myself, for the sake of my loved ones, for the sake of my mother. We were going to get through this together.