Clouds in the Head

Being dejected on a sunny day, the clouds don't disappear, you carry them over your head. He's gone, really gone, and while I'm falling apart, the world hasn't even blinked. That's the sad truth, when you're gone, nobody stops in silence, they keep living, because to everyone else nothing really happened.

All I could think about was him, and how I wanted nothing more than to fall asleep. Even though my eyes have become heavier than the gravity pushing them down, I couldn't sleep. It's hard to shake the eyes off of me. The train was empty that morning, but the eyes still lingered , hidden in the corner, with their rays of judgment burning through my skull. At least my stop was coming soon.

It wasn't soon after my stop, when I got off the train, that completely forgot why I was there to begin with. Thousands of thoughts began racing through my mind, moving too fast for me to be able to catch, making it impossible for me to remember. One thought, however, stood out more than the rest; coffee. The craving hit hard, so with that in mind, I swung my backpack over my shoulder and began walking out of the station, in a random direction. Coffee shops seem to be around every corner, so finding one should be easy. Maybe I could get some writing in too.

After some walking and window shopping for cafes, I finally found one of my liking. A little shop named Bill's Hofbrau, with minimal people, and a nice smell. Walking in, the music was a bit too pop for me, so I took my headphones out of my bag, slipped it over only one ear, and put some music on that fit my despondent mood. With my music playing, my nerves felt more at ease. I'd be more at ease once I could get some writing in. Writing always helped me comprehend complex emotions, so I would would write often.

The line was short, so it was soon my turn. The barista had a hard and cold gaze that could freeze ice. With her tone even colder than her leer, she calls me to the counter. I stared at the overhead menu, well knowing that I was going to order a large americano triple shot, as if I was just trying to replicate what I thought a normal person would do. I looked for a place to sit after my order was placed.

There was this nice table facing the window. It was for two people, so I placed my backpack on the empty chair, sat down, and took out my eensy black notebook. My exposed ear was bothering me, so I covered it. Now being immersed, my music washed the thoughts away. All but one. His face was plastered all over my mind. I began to write:

In the car, with his eyes stuck on the road, he says to me, "Son, I don't know what you want to do in the future, but I know that you will do it. The mind is a terrible thing to waste, and you are so bright. I know that you will do great things. And whatever you chose to do, I will be there to help and support you."

My father was my favorite person in the whole world, so when he passed away, I became completely uninterested in life. It's been a week since he passed, and since then, it feels like the air in my lungs was replaced by rocks.

"One large americano!" yelled the barista, piercing through my music.

From the sip I took from the cup, I could tell it wasn't a triple shot, but I couldn't muster up the courage to send it back, so I went back to my table to continue writing. My mind kept thinking of my dad, even when I was trying my hardest to think of anything else, so I write:

There are people in this world who deserve to die, but not him, not my dad. Why did it happen like this? He was here, he was fine. When will the pain in my chest go away?

A tear tickled my cheek and fell on the page of my little black notebook, interrupting my writing. Am I crying? That can't be, I don't cry. I didn't even cry on that day. Why am I crying now? My music could not be loud enough, now that the clouds are back. This is when I've had enough of reality. In reality, my father won't come back. In reality, I won't get to see him again. There was so much I wanted him to see. He never got to see me succeed as a writer. And I wont get to see him in my future.

The clouds made it pour through my eyes on the pages of my notebook. The coffee seeped through the cup, leaving a ring on the table. I had to leave that place. In a rush, I shoved my notebook in my backpack, and sped out of there, leaving my coffee on the table.

My heart started to accelerate, making breathing even harder. I don't even know what happened. I sat on a bench, surrounded by plants. As I waited for my heart to slow down, I was thinking about what had happened, and it started raining. I never truly accepted when he died, because it happened so suddenly. Every night this week, I would wake up in a panic, hoping that it was a dream. Wishing that my father would be there when I woke up. Praying that it wasn't true, that it was a dream that I'd soon wake up from.

It was something I didn't want to accept as the truth, as reality. And I still don't. My mother found him on the floor with the pill bottle empty on the sink. He didn't even leave a note. We didn't know that his BPD was bad again. We thought he was taking his medicine, but as it turns out, he hadn't taken them in months, until he took them all at once.

It hit me. I had to go to the bank. The bank called saying that my father had a safety deposit box that I had to empty. We never had any money, we were poor. All of my father's money was spent on his family, trying to give us the best life he could, a life we could be satisfied with, so money was the last thing that I expected.

It stopped raining, so I searched for a map on my phone that showed the bank only minutes away. When I got there, they checked my identification and led me to the safety deposit room and opened my father's box. It was a surprise to find just an envelope with the words, "Wait until you get home to open."

It was a relief to head home. I wasn't too eager to open the envelope, there was a bit of curiosity. What could my father have possibly left in this envelope. He never told me or my mother about it, so was it a secret? Going to my room, I dropped my backpack on my bed, sit down and rip open the letter. To my dismay, there was a check of $20,000. My heart sank to the floor. But there was also a note. It read:

My Dear Son, In this envelope you will find a piece of me. I made you a promise that I would always be there for you. I promised to support you in anything that you decide to do in your life. I've worked my entire life just to make sure that your life would be one that you would be proud of. This money that I saved for years will make sure of that. It's not much, I know that, but it's all that I could save and I hope that it will be a step that begins your journey. Even if you can't see me, I will always be there. I want you and your mother to know that I am truly sorry. I love you. -Your Father

I cried all through the night, but not because of the clouds. It felt like the fog of the clouds finally lifted, and the acceptance of my father's death drove the clouds away. My tears fell because I knew he was there with me.

Months have passed since I opened the letter, and I just finished publishing my first book. I didn't touch the money, I gave half of it to my mother, so that she would also have a piece of my father. The rest of the money I put it in a box. A reminder of the hard work of my father, and maybe for my future children. Looking at my father's note would always give me inspiration, so I framed it. "I won't let you down dad," I said, "Just watch me."