Kendal Homan: "Strawberry Silence"

“If you want to go see him, it’s going to have to be today.”

My seven year old heart pounded in my chest; my body shook with every thump. I floated to the car, my legs were numb.
My jeans brushed at my shins when I sat in the car. Playing with the loose threads coming from the holes in my sweatshirt, I wondered what he would think of me.
“Is this enough for him? Do we have time to go home and change?”
“No.”
I smoothed my messy hair down with my hands, all the while pulling my jeans down so they at least touched my ankles. I ripped my sweatshirt off; only to find a stained white t-shirt underneath.
Frustration takes over my body, so  I laid back in my seat and closed my eyes.
“He just wants to tell you goodbye. It’s not like he can even judge you anyway.”
My eyes shot open.
“Is he really that sick?”
“Yes.”
The ride there was deafeningly silent. Millions of thoughts flowing through my brain, causing it to throb.
Breathe in, breathe out.
My mind would not stop.
I needed to speak, I needed to make this right.
“Mom-”
“Do you-”
“Will he-”
“Do you think he loves-”
Did I love him the same?
“Did he actually like me, Mom?”
“He loves you. He always has and he always will.''
My mouth tried to find words to say.
Nothing. No words.
What do you say to someone who loves you more than you love them?
I was face to face with my favorite place to visit. My body now rigid, it picked itself up and pushed out of the car. Lead replaced my legs and heartache replaced my innocence.
The slick sidewalk led me to the front door of the house. My fist lightly tapped the door before I could think.
Stepping into the home, I no longer felt the tenderness and love from the warm colors of the house. The house felt gray and the air was stiff.
His home, once adorned with family photos, now hidden behind different machines to help him live. Thousands of pill bottles replaced the board games that were played on the dining table. His hospice bed in place of the area where I used to play. Life was different now.
There wasn’t a single ounce of health left in that man. The only thing I could do was stare at him; once an avid doll stylist, now lifeless. I held his hand and prayed to God. Hard.
The whoosh of one of the machines cancelled out the silence. No words were exchanged between any of us; it’s not like He could respond anyway.
My chest caved when I had to say three little words. Three little words that I used nonchalantly, now being used as my last words. Guilt weighed on my body.
“Too much hesitation” and “You didn’t do enough”  took over my brain.
All the air left my body.
His stiff, pruned hand outstretched. I tucked my hand into his and gazed at his motionless face.
"I lo-"
"I love-"
I can't finish.
He was a fighter.
A husband.
A grandfather.
And all he gets is a measly "I love you" ?
Thud. . .
Pitter-patter. . .
Thud.
Dog toys were lazily pitched and returned. Adults sat at the table and talked about the service and tombstone. The breathing machine taking up any silence left in the house.
Thud. . .Whoosh
I would take quick glances in between each throw. My eyes raked his body for any sign of the end.
Chest rising and falling?
Check.
Machine still plugged in?
Check.
Like an accordion: in and out.
Pitter-patter.
I picked my body up from the floor and went to the foot of his bed. Childhood innocence reigned my body; the proper VHS tape found its way into my hand and popped into the bottom of the TV. The sound of our favorite TV show rang throughout the room. The light from the screen lit up both of our faces; Strawberry Shortcake danced in the pupils of our eyes.
Straw-Buh-Buh-Buh-Buh-Berry.
My back rested against the hospice bed.
Whoosh.
Too fearful to turn around, like a child running up the stairs after turning off the light.  The room whirled around me; saliva thick in the back of my throat. My body trembled with each thump of my heart.
Straw-Buh-Buh-Buh-Buh-Berry.
Whoosh. . .Pitter-patter.
The room spun faster.
Whoosh. . .Thud
Straw-Buh-Buh-Buh-B-
I turned the TV off.
My feet stumbled as it carried my dead weighted body. I came across the back bedroom; I combed through it, scouring to find the one thing that could make him happy again.
I pulled out the jewelry box; He converted it into a doll closet for me years prior. I pulled
my box of dolls underneath the bed. I pulled the hand-crafted doll hangers from their respective racks and laid them on his chest. I rested one doll on his pruned limp hand.
I spiffied up my doll: the nicest dress and shoes were tugged on her body. A toothbrush smoothed her golden locks. My eyes flickered back and forth between his face and the untouched doll in his hand.
“Your turn,” I whispered.
Whoosh.
He did not want to play, so I cleaned the dolls. 
I burrowed my body into the floor and wrapped my arms around my tiny torso; easing myself back to reality.
Seeking comfort, I looked for my mom; I knew she’d provide it. My mother held me in her lap and rocked me back and forth. I buried my face into her neck and prayed.
He could not play anymore. He was never going to be able to play again.
He always willingly volunteered to play: dress up, dolls, and tea parties.
No more playtime,
Or laughs,
Or hugs,
Or love.
All gone. No more.
The lump in my throat grew five times its size, but the tears never came.
Neither did the sound.
Nothing. No sound. I felt my heart drop. He was gone.