She Rolls Alone

Today was the day.

I had finally summoned the courage to walk through my parents' house. The for sale sign on the front lawn was a beacon illuminating the fact that this house—my parents' house—would no longer be that safe place I could run to when I needed a break. This house was the only safe place that I had ever known. It wasn't the actual building. It was simply four walls and a roof sitting on top of a foundation. A rock-solid foundation.

Mom and dad had lived in the same house that I grew up in—a rarity in this day and age.

Actually, come to think of it, the fact that my parents survived fifty-five years of marriage and still held each other's hands was somehow comforting. They didn't always get along, but their ability to make it through the rough times with strength and love was inspiring.

So when mom got sick, I moved back home. Dad was fantastic at looking after her. He would make her favourite meals, blend them, and push them through the tube into her stomach because she could no longer chew or swallow.

When she soiled herself, dad not only cleaned her up, but he would run her a hot bath with her favourite bath oil. He even lit candles. Some days mom would soil herself more than once, and each time dad was there with a smile and a bath.

After mom died, dad fell into a depression, and I knew I had to stay to look after him.

Depression caused dad to turn to the bottle. At first, it was a shot of brandy every night, which turned into a glass of wine at dinner and eventually a vodka for breakfast. Dad's liver started to fail. He turned yellow, and soon, I was the one running the baths and wearing the smile.

It wasn't shocking that a year after mom died, we were back in the same church, listening to the same pastor give another eulogy. Even though I knew that liver failure was the reason for dad's death, I still believe that dad died of a broken heart.

I buried him beside mom, in the plot they had chosen years ago.

Today I am standing in the garden shed. The last place I had to clean out before the realtors opened up the house to strangers. I am staring blankly at all the boxes that held the memories from years past. I didn't want to sort my childhood into neat little piles labelled throw away and keep. With each box I opened, I am reminded of how much mom cherished memories.

My gold-painted macaroni hand. The outline of my twelve-year-old self. My corsage from prom. Every item was preserved, waiting to unleash a tsunami of emotions.

As I unboxed, unpacked and sorted memories. I spotted them. The pair of rollerskates dad bought me after I begged him my entire junior year of high school.

There they were, hanging under dad's favourite picture of me running through our backyard sprinkler. Tears started to stream down my face. You see, the day before mom died, I had wanted to do something special for my father. So, I packed us a little picnic, and we went to the park beside the roller rink. We sat, ate and talked, then dad said, "Hey peanut, let's go rollerskating." We spent hours rolling around in that dark, deserted rink.

Just the two of us.

Skating side by side. Each one of us is laughing, joking and rolling without a care in the world. For that brief moment in time, we were reminded of how it felt to laugh and live without the burden of illness.

That moment was the last time I remembered my father laughing.

I grabbed the old dusty pair of rollerskates, strapped them on and rolled out of the shed and into the fresh air.

Today I roll alone.