Meelahn S-W

Circles

“Just take what you want,” I say loudly to my sister in the other room. “I don’t want any of it.” I sink down into my father’s old armchair, instantly swallowed by masses of hard fabric and foam that are used to a much larger frame than my own. My eyes scan the room by habit. There’s nothing here to catch my eye-- I know the layout of my father’s bedroom by heart. And still, I find myself staring at objects I’ve already memorized, in both shape and placement within the space. It’s a welcome distraction, really. I note the piles of laundry that have been neatly folded, stacked on top of the dresser but not put away. His too-big bed fills the space almost obnoxiously, making the room look even smaller. Light streams from the window, shining mainly on his nightstand that’s been settled in the right-hand corner of the room for as long as I can remember. My eyes shift to the prayer beads nestled neatly on top of the nightstand, the harsh glint of the afternoon light bouncing off of each bead. Instinctively, I reach out to touch the beads, running my fingers over the smooth spheres as my grandfather did, as my father does. Or did, until yesterday. The brown beads feel cold to the touch, despite the sun beating down upon them. They, too, feel my father’s absence. Here, he is everywhere, but nowhere to be found. His scent fills the air, as if he is right around the corner, waiting to be noticed. But he doesn’t appear. He can’t, for that matter, because he dropped to the ground last night and never got up. A mysterious final act for a mysterious man, I suppose.