Rose
sat on the stone, doublewide steps of her home. Despite being a row home, it
wasn’t cramped or small. But still she found herself feeling like walls were
closing in on her, even though she was outside. Breaths were sharp and uneven,
trying to calm herself down in vain. The kitten slipped out of the wide-open
white door and into Rose’s lap, mewing quietly. Two fingers reached out to
brush short white fur, a feeble attempt at comfort.
The
windows above where Rose sat all had their shades closed. She knew her Dad
must’ve done that. Why, if not for the open door and teenaged girl sitting on
the steps with a kitten in her lap, a passerby would think the house abandoned.
Rose’s
clear, icy blue eyes lifted as a truck passed, tires sloshing through shallow
puddles and spraying the dirt mixture onto the bottom step affectively making
the house look that much older. The words printed on the dirt-splattered side
of the truck were clear and straight: Chemotherapeutic and Infected Waste. The
thought that her other father’s own waste might be in there formed in her mind
before she could stop it.
And
there it was again. Faced with an unchangeable truth, a dark reality. There was
nothing that could be said or done about it. Her father was dead. But for once
in Rose’s life, being blunt did not help her submerge or bury any feelings she
didn’t want. That hollow grief remained in her chest, squeezing her heart and
filling her throat.
The
white door with the shiny brass numbers 313 printed across it would forever seem
light and happy, even when she was mourning. The block of cement in front of
her house that held her, her father and her dad’s handprints on it was now just
a taunting memory. And she’d never have peace, either, with jackhammers and
cement trucks tearing up the other side of the street.
Hot
tears escaped out of her eyes and ran their paths down her face. They fell from
Rose’s chin onto the kitten’s head, earning her an annoyed stare. And some even
fell on the stone steps, cleaning away ever so small spots of the dirt and mud.
Any other day, Rose would push up off of the stairs and walk down the sidewalk
to a small park tucked away in a corner, where weeds were appreciated as much
as flowers. Or she’d walk hand in hand with her father to their favorite
restaurant, passing the conflicting protests outside of the simple, stone
building that was Planned Parenthood.
Today
Rose would sit on her steps, watching construction workers rebuild the road and
cars slip in and out of too narrow alleyways, rushing to and from work. She’d
let the shade of the trees make her feel as if she was safe and hidden away,
instead of in the public eye. If she had her way, nothing and no one would move
her.
Of
course, at some point her dad would come out and make her get up. Take a walk
with her. Tell Rose that it was what her father would’ve wanted. Rose’s eyes
narrowed into a harsh glare and she turned her head even at the thought. No,
what her father would’ve wanted was to be able to see his partner of 25 years
in the hospital, instead of being refused visiting rights because they weren’t
allowed to get married.
And
so Rose would not go walking with her Dad. He’d sit next to her as she sat on
those steps, becoming part of the stone herself. Unmovable, unbreakable, incorruptible.
Guarding the white door with the brass numbers 313 printed across it.
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