In the falling snow, I hold your hand.   The chill bites at my fingertips.

 We walk, headed for the taxi across the street.  The cold rises up through my soles as I look at you, your overcoat swallowing your frail frame.  I see you now, as you see yourself, as someone else.  As something else.   Your face is tight like  balloon skin, teeth jutting, once a perfect size, now hideous against thin lips.  Eyes set deep in their sockets look back at me as I reach up to trace  the pattern of your skull.  Hard and finite it brags of inevitability.  Short stubby lashes blink me away.  From under your hat, I see the smatterings of new hair, darker than before.  Like baby roots under the loam. 

 Occasionally the wind blusters past us, flapping your coat open.  I can sense the weight in you pocket, and imagine the bottle inside.   The yellow label and the words Nembutal inscribed on the outside, exactly as you had showed me on the website. 

Silence walks between us as we cross the road.   Cars passing , their headlights dull against the gloom.  The fumes from the exhaust taste like poison.  I imagined this would be different.  That moments of bittersweet symbolism would etch this moment in my mind always.  Instead, the bare trees feel full of crows.  I want to stand by the cab forever. 

 Heavy with sadness, my head drops.  The sharp spikes of your beard scrape along my cheek, burning with the cold.  My hands grab for you, feeling thin shoulders and hollowed bones.  Skeleton fingers wrap my wrists. 

 There is no goodbye, we've done that already, and as you enter the cab, I hear you give the driver the address.  You tell him you're tired and may sleep for the duration of the trip.  Not to wake you.  You pull the door shut, the noise like an axe cutting off a limb.  You hunker down in the corner of the seat, like a child in their father's favourite chair, and your hand dips into you pocket.  It is your favourite drive, and I see you remembering times and places and faces, before taking that fatal sip and slipping away.  I imagine the drivers irritation upon arrival, and wonder if he will take the fifty dollar note you have left for him in your wallet.

  Pulling sharply out into the traffic the cab screeches as it breaks heavily at the lights.  The sound jangles at my nerves, my skin brittle. 

I wait for you to turn, to look at me one final time, but the cab is gone.  I stand and watch its invisible trail.  The wind howls hollow against my ears.  Alone, flakes land upon my face like frozen tears and I whisper..."Goodbye Daddy."

justwrite   justwrite wrote
on 5/18/2009 6:58:43 AM
Bravo! Your writing really sets the tone of this piece with such descriptive imagery. unusual writing style, just a few grammatical errors. Nothing that upsets the pace of the story. A feeling of sadness prevades throughout. Good job! Keep on writing. Sincerely IGWooten

kt6550   kt6550 wrote
on 4/16/2009 10:44:03 PM
Sorry. I cannot rate this. It is too painful.

Bluez   Bluez wrote
on 4/14/2009 7:53:37 AM
Wow...of all the stories here, I think I like this one the best, though it is dark as the others and I am not sure why "goodbye" happens and if it's a good thing, it doesn't seem like it here. Again I like your descriptive phrases, the way you use words to paint the images you see as you write.

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