His hands squeezed into fists, veins pulsing.
He lifted his head, neck straining.
“This can’t be!” The nurse exclaimed. “He’s comatose.”
His arms shook.
His head fell back - jaw clenched, lips pursed tight.
The nurse placed her scope on his risen chest.
“He’s dead.” She looked at the clock. “One a.m.”
His arms quivered.
His chest did not fall.
“He died holding his breath!” The nurse told me.
“How did he do that?”
I looked into my father’s eyes, open under a furrowed brow.
Wrong question, I knew.
Not how, but why?
“Did you, Dad,” I dared to wonder, “remember last words unspoken?”
Were they to me,
“I’m sorry, daughter; I should not have done that. Your hatred is deserved.”
Or what about to your junior,
“I’m proud of you, my son. You did good.”
Or maybe to your youngest:
“Please, please don’t be like me. Others exist. I was no hero.”
Or, Dad, was this merely one more battle to wage,
withholding from death your last breath,
proving - once again -
what, Dad, what?
About the Creator
Denise Davis
A Manhattan-toasted, Kentucky marinated, Southern Californian, this 60+ year old woman has studied writing, taught writing and admired writing. It's time to actually begin writing. We shall see how this goes.
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Comments (1)
I like your work!