Status: Re-uploaded 20/09/12.
The Night You Died
One and Only
They say that when someone dies, a bomb hits. I think the night you died was more like Chernobyl. You left everything intact– the last movie you ever watched, sitting in the DVD player, your last glass of Dutch courage half-finished, still bearing the misty imprint of your lips.
There was no food in any of the cupboards. The shelves stared empty when we opened them. They were not clean, like you had hoped. You didn’t tie off any loose ends, but you tore some ragged new holes. The dust in the hallway was the same settled stuff you walked in on your way out. There were pictures of our family in the frames, watching blithely, and shotgun filings in the shed, the night you died.
The night you died, the police sirens went off. Our world was radioactive, brimming with frantic energy, not decay. The night you died, there was an evacuation. They closed your house up like a cement sarcophagus. When we re-opened it, there was still some glow of you inside, after the night you died.
The night you died, history froze. You never lived to see today, or tomorrow. You never lived to see me graduate, or read the book I wrote for you. You never saw the way the world progressed, while you were stuck in 1986. You never saw the newspapers nobody collected, or watched the McDonalds wrappers pile up on the kitchen table. They have new packaging that you wouldn’t recognise. They started new promotions, after you died.
A new law passed this week. You would have liked it. The scientists discovered a universal secret, but you died before they could tell you. There was no God particle in your day. Jayne is going to Sydney. She wants to start studying, like you always wanted her to. You won’t see her graduate, either, but I’ll be there, in one of the two seats reserved for her family.
I’ll be a lawyer soon. When I stand up in my black, I’ll look like an adult. I’ll be wearing that black for the rest of my life. It’s a blackness made from the past, and I like that. It reminds me of everybody who put me here. We're all woven together, really.
I’m the one who spoke at your funeral. I’m the one who made all the arrangements. I’m selling the house, like you wanted. I’m doing it alone. I sit on two boards of directors now. I'm presenting a thesis. I wanted you to come. I was going to tell you, but I never got the chance. I hope you would be proud.
You said you didn’t matter to the world, but that’s not true.
We never forgot you, the night you died.
There was no food in any of the cupboards. The shelves stared empty when we opened them. They were not clean, like you had hoped. You didn’t tie off any loose ends, but you tore some ragged new holes. The dust in the hallway was the same settled stuff you walked in on your way out. There were pictures of our family in the frames, watching blithely, and shotgun filings in the shed, the night you died.
The night you died, the police sirens went off. Our world was radioactive, brimming with frantic energy, not decay. The night you died, there was an evacuation. They closed your house up like a cement sarcophagus. When we re-opened it, there was still some glow of you inside, after the night you died.
The night you died, history froze. You never lived to see today, or tomorrow. You never lived to see me graduate, or read the book I wrote for you. You never saw the way the world progressed, while you were stuck in 1986. You never saw the newspapers nobody collected, or watched the McDonalds wrappers pile up on the kitchen table. They have new packaging that you wouldn’t recognise. They started new promotions, after you died.
A new law passed this week. You would have liked it. The scientists discovered a universal secret, but you died before they could tell you. There was no God particle in your day. Jayne is going to Sydney. She wants to start studying, like you always wanted her to. You won’t see her graduate, either, but I’ll be there, in one of the two seats reserved for her family.
I’ll be a lawyer soon. When I stand up in my black, I’ll look like an adult. I’ll be wearing that black for the rest of my life. It’s a blackness made from the past, and I like that. It reminds me of everybody who put me here. We're all woven together, really.
I’m the one who spoke at your funeral. I’m the one who made all the arrangements. I’m selling the house, like you wanted. I’m doing it alone. I sit on two boards of directors now. I'm presenting a thesis. I wanted you to come. I was going to tell you, but I never got the chance. I hope you would be proud.
You said you didn’t matter to the world, but that’s not true.
We never forgot you, the night you died.