101 Words

When Ted pulled closed the overhead door, it slammed shut with a sound that was decisive and final.

The steering wheel felt cool in the palms of his hands. He gripped it as if preparing for a long journey.

He gazed at the upholstered ceiling with the water stain that looked like a cloud. He tried to lose himself in it.

He concentrated on his breathing, inhaling the earthy smell of oil—surprisingly, not an altogether unpleasant odor.

Tasting bitter fear, he edged toward unconsciousness and dully wondered how many of his senses he would need wherever he was headed next.

Sheltered beneath the old weeping willow again, memories hidden beneath its shady umbrella are unearthed.

Grandpa’s tall tales of being a pilot, lion tamer, spy. Apron-clad Grammy shouting me in for a bath or delicious home-baked treat. Fighting my brother, recklessly swinging from those rope-like branches.

The day we tied sunshine yellow ribbons around its trunk to commemorate their passing.

Their special place long before ours.

Tracing over their initials forever crudely etched on the trunk, I retrieve Grandpa’s old penknife from my pocket. I scratch my own initials below, wishing one day I might have someone to share this with.

Ding.

I check my phone. My parents’ Costco list.

Store run time. Gear up, can’t forget my mask.

My four-year-old waylays me.

“Baba, I wanna go shopping!”

“You can’t, son.”

“Why?”

“Coronavirus. Sorry.”

The roads are almost empty, but the parking lot isn’t.

A sign out front lists all the goods out-of-stock. TP out? You bet.

Like a prehistoric hunter, I risk my life to keep the tribe fed. My frustration mounting, I stalk the aisles. I concede the hunt with only half the list fulfilled. Still, my masked parents are grateful.

Another two weeks until I risk the hunt again.

I lean forward and hold his head in my hands. I slowly start to sing his favourite hymn:

“I am a child of God,
And he has sent me here,
Has given me an earthly home
With parents kind and dear.”

Tears trickle down his face.

“It’s ok, Dad. You are safe. Don’t be frightened,” I whisper.

His breathing is now rattled, Cheyne–Stokes irregular.

The seconds between his breaths become longer, each one more earnest than the last.

I cuddle him. I kiss him on the forehead and whisper, “I love you.”

And then it all stops.

He has gone.