Whispers in the Dark

Boxes and bags filled every room, hall and doorway. Everything was packed and ready to go, everything except my father. He stood with his back against the wall. There was a cup of coffee in one hand, my hand in the other. We watched silently as the spectacle unfolded before us. As of right now my mother was dealing with the third crisis of the day, getting my dresser through the door. She was nearly manic at this point, shouting obscenities at the workers and rummaging through the boxes, making sure everything was accounted for. My father stood back smirking as he always did when my mother was frantic and frustrated over such silly things.

My mother was always the leader, taking charge of every situation while my father and I were the 'go with the flow' type. She stressed over every detail while we just let things happen. I looked at the items that were being left behind, the old floral printed couches, the busted up kitchen table with the four mitched-matched chairs. These were the things that helped shaped my childhood, the couches were home to countless naps, and cushion forts, the rich grains of the table held the memories of dinners, lego forts, and bare the scuffs of crayons past. My eyes rested on the hand holding mine. He was the most important thing we were leaving behind. Up to this point, my fathers participation in my life was never in question. We were inseparable, because of the unseen circumstance he was now an unknown variable. My father said that he would join us in a few months, even at the age of ten I could spot a lie a mile away.