“Pain…is weakness…leaving the body.”
            My aunt and I entered the stark room to find Dad lying beneath drab blue and white sheets wearing a paper-thin gown. The lights above us were too bright for someone in his pitiful condition to endure. He looked up at me, or at least he tried to. There wasn’t the usual raw steak to help him now, for either eye. Hospitals don’t usually offer such things.
            He struggled to swallow. “Pain…is weakness…leaving the body.” He always said that as he tended to his injuries after a bitter argument, though this was by far the worst I’ve ever seen him.
            “No, Don. Pain is the body’s way of warning you to stop what’s causing it.” My aunt’s voice quivered. I wasn’t sure if she was angry with him or sad for him.
            “Mom got mad again, huh?” The words just slipped. I immediately bit my lip and lowered my head.
            That look again. Even through the awful swelling was that terrible look he always gives me when I ask that question, caught between outrage at my lack of respect for the woman who brought me into this world, and sorrow in knowing that I was right to be angry.
            My words were almost trapped in my throat. “I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to—“
            What was left of a loving glance returned. “It’s okay. Heal an old man by drawing another masterpiece for me, eh, sweetheart?” Even in this condition, he wanted the routine therapy.
            I looked all around me, then at my aunt, then back at him. “Here?”
            “What’s wrong with here? There’s a seat right over there.”
            I followed his glance to two simple chairs behind me in the far corner of the room. “But Dad, I don’t have my notebook–“
            Dad let out a heavy sigh that paralyzed me – such misery as I’ve never heard before. “What time is it, sweetheart?”
            It must have taken me two minutes just to lift my eyes to the clock above his bed. “Eight thirty.”  
            “Not having your book is not a valid excuse, by the way.” My aunt gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze and smiled. “I’ll find a pen and some paper for you.”

            The strong scent of fresh ink lingered in my nose. The sound of the pen feverishly traversing the tan page tickled my ears. My eyes were wide open, but I wasn’t seeing the real world at all. I couldn’t physically see the page, or my fingers desperately clinging to the inking wand that was christening every inch of it. I no longer saw my wrist, which was now navigating itself. I only saw the growing massive canyon that my pen was weaving; could feel the hot wind on my face, taste the dust particles on my lips, smell my sweat. Dad will love this. He always wanted to take me rock climbing, always wanted to share the moment at the summit with me. He loved the thrill of looking over the edge to see how far up he’d climbed. He promised me we would do that when I got a little older.

            My wrist suddenly felt stock-still. I shook myself back to the world to find my aunt’s trembling hands clutching mine. I gave her a questioning look, but she refused to speak. As she slowly moved out of my view, I found Dad’s struggling eyes were fixed on me. His parted lips warned of speech, but were still. I swallowed hard, taking another two minutes to look up at the clock. Three forty-five. My jaws pressed together as my eyes began to burn and moisten. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting, Dad. Consider your oath fulfilled.” I placed the incomplete sketch in his once beckoning left hand.               
            The thin air makes my little lungs ache. The sky is erratic and the sun unforgiving. The lands are dangerous. But I am here, Dad. I am forever at the cliff edge waiting for you. Can you see me?

~KilikaMel