Memo - A flash fiction

She runs her fingers through my hair; the cool soothes my scalp, comforting me – reminding me of when I used to lie against my father’s shoulder and reside in that one scent that personified him. He died of lung cancer at 66. I loved how the smell of pipe tobacco lingered on his clothes, beneath the table tops, in the corners of our house, and in the family car, but it was all the more tragic when the smell began to fade; the bits of him disappeared; his dresser drawers no longer slanted open, but remained shut and dormant. My mother never went near them when I was home. She just wandered around the house with her chin up and a gently forced smile. Sometimes when I’d come home she’d be sitting in the living room against the coffee couch listening to old records on the family entertainment system – tape player, record player, and all. I used to speed up the records to make the voices sound like chipmunks.

She runs her fingers through my hair.

I remember when my father first found out that he had cancer. Junior year at Boston College was flashing by – it was January already, snow covered the ground two-feet-thick. I was in a lounge with several of my friends. We were just joking around. Laughing. My cell phone rang and I answered it like I always did:
“Wud up home-slizzle?”
“Excuse me?” it was my younger brother on the other line. I could sense that pretentious prick getting an attitude with me already.
“Hey, I’m hanging out right now, can I just call you back later.”
“Like you ever call.”
I took the phone from my ear looked to my friends eager faces, mouthed brother, and gave the phone the finger. I could hear my brother mumbling something, so I put the phone back up to my ear.
“You there?” he asked repeatedly
“Yeah, what is it.”
“You need to drive home now.”
I looked out the lounge window, “hell no.”
“John,” Jacob’s voice was suddenly more vulnerable, “Dad’s in the hospital.”
I grabbed my keys and left without a word.

She runs her fingers through my hair.

I drove straight to the hospital, and ran through the automatic doors. My brother was standing outside my father’s room, 106, with his arms crossed.
“Oh, there you are.” he said
“Shut the fuck up – I’m here.” I said quickly and without thinking as I ran past Jacob into the room.
I stopped before the curtain. I could see the shadow of his bed; it was siphoning me. Frozen, I couldn’t take another step. I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing my father dying- not himself. I wondered whether I had spent enough time with him. My grandfather had died at 66 – was I in time’s cruel mirror room watching history repeat itself and seeing the reflection of my own fate? Jacob was suddenly standing next to me. I looked at him, then walked around the curtain.
I looked to my father’s blankly-pale face and balding black hair. His blue eyes were fixed forward towards the elevated television. I didn’t even think he saw me beside his bed.
“Damn Celtics.” He said with a grin.

She runs her fingers through my gray hair.

Dad grew worse, and I couldn’t help but wonder how Grandma would handle if my father were ever to die before her. They say no parent should ever have to bury their child. I can’t imagine burying my own.
But she did. I thought the grief might kill her. In two months the family had to put her into a home. A few months after that her memory was gone. To this day I can’t decide whether that was tragic or a strange act of grace.

She runs her fingers through my gray hair, and caresses my wrinkled dark face. “Something on your mind, Dear?”