Windward Review Vol. 20 (2022): Beginnings and Endings

Leonard Duncan
An Epilogue
It’s a cold and rainy day. I can imagine
it’s befitting of a gray, storming ocean,
or a thundering night sky – like the ones
you’d like to watch on TV – even if it’s just
a drizzle right now. It’s been a year since
your memorial, but I can’t lie to myself.
The weather is really like all those funeral
days we saw in the movies on your father’s
old VHS tapes; positively black-umbrella
worthy. And yet I sit here with no umbrella
in hand. The only thing that protects me
from the rain is the tattered plastic shelter
of this bus stop, hundreds of miles from
where you died. I forgot my umbrella at
home (or did I even mean to bring it?). I
forget many things, now.
But not you. Never you, even though
maybe it would be better for me to think
less of you. That’s what mom says, anyway;
did you know I stopped mentioning you
to her not long after the memorial? (I
suppose you wouldn’t, since it’s not like
I talk to her much at all). She tolerated
it, but I could see the disgust in her eyes
every time you were mentioned. I think
that was worse than not talking about
you at all, so I started holding you closer
to my chest. It was easier to keep our
precious memories untainted that way - to
keep them untouched by the judgment of
people who wouldn’t understand.
And, I suppose, that’s part of the reason
why I’m leaving. I know my doctors
certainly wouldn’t recommend it this soon
—I’ve still got another CT scan scheduled
for Friday, after all, and then my neurology
appointment on the Wednesday after,
and then there’s another one after that…
I can’t recall, but that doesn’t matter too
much now. I won’t be here for it, anyway.
Medicine doesn’t matter too much when
it doesn’t truly heal. I know you’d agree
with me on that point, at least. After all, no
amount of painkillers could heal the damage
done to you after what your father did. What
happened last year shows that, but don’t
worry. I’m not bitter about it. I know that if
I had tried a little harder, things might have
been different. Of all the people to blame for
what happened, I know I’m pretty high up on
that list.
Well, maybe that’s a lie. Not the blame, but
the bitterness. After all, I could count on one
hand the number of people I had in my life
who I loved, and you took them all out in
one fell swoop. I have a right to be a little
bitter about that, don’t I? Don’t begrudge
me this. Not when you made me wake up like
that. You said you’d never leave me alone,
but by the time I awoke there was nothing
left for me but the unfamiliarity of distant,
demeaning hospital staff.
I wish I could remember it better, just to
hold on to the clarity of the pain. That pain
was better than anything that came after.
But things are fuzzy from back then... There
was astringency, sure; muted impressions
of white, and hospital-scrub-blue; but
everything else was kept hushed and warm
under a blanket of morphine, or fentanyl, or
whatever opiates they decided would keep
me mollified for the day.
One of the first things I do remember is
seeing my mother for the first time since I
was nine, and for the second time in my life.
I thought if I ever saw her again, you would
be there with me, a barrier between me and
the world; but, no. (I’m sure you see the irony
that you were the reason I saw her again).
I didn’t even recognize her, for a while; part
of that can be attributed to the sorry mess
that was my brain, but she also seemed like
a whole different woman than when I first
met her, more in manner than in appearance.
49 Windward Review Volume 20