The Light In The Window
A brother and sister watch over their ailing dad, and each other
Note: All words across varied timelines, characters, and perspectives are written by the author.
MATTHEW April 2007
How is he still in that damn chair?
At the base of the stairs, home from a 14-hour day, I glance into the darkness as my father broods in the corner, the blue light from the TV reflecting his misery. I have already been to school and back, to work and back — yet there he sits, my decrepit father, in the same place he was when I left this morning. My sympathy for the man is waning; the catheter bag at his hip is no longer an excuse I wish to brandish. The man is lost, a guidepost for everything I don’t want to be.
He hears my steps and looks over briefly, his eyes catching mine. But I don’t nod, don’t say anything. I look away, open my bedroom door, turn on the lamp atop my desk, and close the door behind me.
“Goodnight, Pops,” I mumble to myself. He’s not supposed to be here still.
