Inertia

by A.R. Rivera

I maneuver down the junk pile as quietly as possible, sure my dad would consider this overstepping to come and go as I please through his private property.

  I’m used to insecurity. I deal with it like everything else, but it isn’t normal to feel so detached from my own father. I accept that there are parts of him I will never understand, but he has always understood me, pursued me, and called me. I’ve never been able to keep a secret from him. With one look, he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Sometimes he knows what I’m going to do before I do. It’s an instinctive ability to cut through my bull. We’ve always been very close, like two sides of the same coin but here he feels like a stranger. I don’t know what to make of this soft spoken, even keeled man; so tolerant and gentle, so unlike the grumpy old buzzard I am accustomed to. I wonder if this counter-creation ever loses his temper.

  My ambiguity grows as I pass beneath the bright windows on my way to the front yard. The murmuring of many voices carries through the glass panes. Some laugh loudly while others yell annoying chants. What could be happening on a Tuesday night that has the driveway and curb packed with cars, and me without an invitation?

  I scurry over the grass, making a beeline for an opening between two parked cars, rushing to get back to my silent sanctuary across the street. Half way through, a chilling sense of dread stops me. My muscles freeze, trapping my feet in the soft green carpet—the midpoint between the two yards, Dads’ and the adjoining neighbors.

  My placement, paired with the positioning of the tree is making my heart beat too fast. I glance between the two several times before I realize why. I’m standing in the same spot where she landed. The place where Dad and I planted a rose bush before we moved.

  Grief wells up as I reach down, brushing the turf with my fingers. It’s cold. There is no ghostly power in the ordinary grass, it’s a place where someone might sit and enjoy a picnic on a sunny day. Right here, between my shoes she laid unnaturally crumpled, her jacket torn. The very spot where she cried out for someone who wasn’t there.

  The images and helpless feelings overwhelm me. My stomach heaves and I bound away from the grave spot troubled by the touch of anything but the cement driveway. In the last stride I leap too quickly and land off-balance, hitting one of the cars with my hip. It hurts, but I hold the yelp alongside the lump in my throat.