Prepare A Room For Me || Simon

Memories of my dad were buried in the earth of my memory. The vivid last day I'd spent with him served as the headstone. 

Summer's breath blew through the tall, pale grass, and climbed up the tree I was in. There was a word for how intense I was feeling now. I didn't know what it was, but I did know I was happy. Here I was with my dad, my mom comfortable inside the house, and not another person for miles. It was peaceful. 

The grass performed a dance beneath the sun that I hopped to the ground to imitate. 

"Dad, look." I raised my arms above my head and swayed them with my body. My dad's cheeks pinkened when he grinned at me, and that made me smile. "I'm copying the grass. Can you tell?"

He chuckled; a musical sound pulled deep from his throat. The depth of his voice had always reminded me of sitting in front of a blazing fire in winter. Close enough that the heat seeped into my skin and warmed me from the inside. His voice was cozy. It was home. 

"You dance so well, Simon. What else can you do?"

I giggled and did a front roll in the grass. However, I missed the spot next to him and crashed into the tree instead. 

Laughing loudly, my dad set down his hammer. "Are you alright, son?" With strong hands, he gingerly set me on my feet. Behind his glasses, his oval brown eyes brightened while he playfully searched me for injuries. 

"You've got dirt in your hair." He ruffled my curls. 

I giggled, and my head dipped from the weight of his hand. "No, I don't. You just wanted an excuse to do that."

"Maybe," he hummed. "But your hair is getting long. I'll have to ask your mother to cut it."

I pulled away, abandoning my dad's hand in the air. "Why do I have to cut it? You never cut yours." My eyes followed the blonde waves that fell past his shoulders. "I want to grow my hair as long as yours."

Warmth melted away the surprise on my dad's face. "Alright. Then you'll need to take care of it. Start brushing it on your own."

After a fast nod, I hugged him. Then I smiled as he squeezed me gently. His arms were big, so I always felt I could hide in them. They always protected me. 

My dad had always been strong. From his large hands, which he'd explained were that way to wield tools, to his overbearing stature, to his keen alertness. Sometimes, I wondered why a carpenter needed to have such traits. But I didn't question that now as I played with a few of my dad's fallen curls. His hair was brighter than mine. Almost white.

He rubbed his hand up my back. "I'm out of nails for our swing, so I'll need to go to the store. Would you like to come with me?"

I pulled back and beamed. "Really? You don't have to work today?"

My dad always worked. Even when we had lived in the Capital, in a much nicer house, and with much thicker clothes, he would disappear for days, sometimes weeks at a time, working without sharing details. Even though our new house was small, and the windows had mold, I was happier now to at least have my dad at home. 

"Not today," he smiled. "I'm all yours."

I pulled on my dad's hands and encouraged him to stand.

The distance to the markets, the center of the farm town we'd lived in, was far. There, my mom would buy ingredients for our meals and thread to patch up the clothing I often ruined stumbling over clumsy feet. My dad would purchase nails for work or to fix the swing he'd built for us that I always managed to break somehow. 

"And for a box of seventy, one and a half-inch? How much would that be?"

"Usually fifty, but since you've got your boy here, I'll give you a discount."

As my dad talked to the stall owner, I held tightly onto his hand. I'd lost interest a long time ago. All the other stalls were much prettier, and my eyes studied them. Eventually, one far to my left held my attention. Something shiny caught my eye. Releasing my dad's hand, my curiosity led me. To the technology stands, I went, my mouth open in awe. 

"Where ya parents, darling?" the brown-haired woman working the stall asked. "Ya won't be able to afford anything here without one."

On the table was a rectangular camera. It was big but looked like it'd fit perfectly in my hands. Although black, it was shiny like a rock in clear water. My mom had told me technology like this didn't exist here because most people couldn't afford to own it. We didn't even have phones. 

"Something catch your eye?"

My dad's hand came around mine, warm and protective. I looked up at him and smiled. "I was just looking at the camera. Do you think I could have one like that someday?"

Momentarily, my dad entertained my hope, his eyes stuck on the camera. He greeted the woman first before inquiring about it. "How much for the Polaroid?"

"$250, love, plus an additional thirty for film."

When my dad frowned, I knew the price would burden him should he spend it. I understood quietly that we couldn't spend too much money in the week, or we wouldn't have anything to eat.

I squeezed his hand. "I saw an ice cream stand. Can we go?"

"Simon." His voice held a serious note. "Would you like that camera?"

With widening eyes, my cheeks warmed excitedly. "Really? I can have it?"

Seemingly happy enough with my eager reaction, he nodded. "Can I trust you'll take care of it?"

I nodded hastily. Then, I watched impatiently as my dad dug into his wallet and pulled out a few folded bills. When the purchase was complete, I could only gawk at the technology in my hands. 

"Wow! It's so shiny!"

My dad counted the paper that came with it, his lips straightening. "Twelve photos for thirty." He sighed. "Well, I guess the prices of city merchandise are inflated."

"What does that mean?" I asked distractedly, bringing the camera to my eye. "Wow! Everything looks so small! Dad, look!" I pulled on his hand and brought him to his knees. 

And chuckling quietly, my dad removed his glasses. The camera reached his eye next. He held it at different angles, looking at the world in ways that made me excited. 

Eventually, he lowered the camera to me. "Click."

I laughed. "That wasn't real. You didn't put the paper in yet."

My dad pulled back with a smile, his aura radiating that familiar warmth that protected me.

"There isn't a lot of film here, son. You'll have to ration. Only take photos of important things you need to remember. Things you love."

"Then…can I take a photo of you?" After pulling a sheet from his hand, I struggled to insert it into the camera. He laughed with me and demonstrated how to open the back and correctly input the film. 

"I guess you'll have to. So you'll always remember me," he answered. 

My dad touched my shoulders. And he wore an expression I didn't really understand. Sometimes…behind his smile, he looked sad…or scared. But whenever I noticed his face falling, he would smile even brighter.

"Keep a place in your heart for me, and it'll always be like I've never left you," he suddenly said.

Something sad flipped in my stomach. "But you'll never leave me, right?"

He lifted the camera in my hands. "Never."

I let my frown fade and grinned. "Smile!"

That evening, my dad had finished our swing, insisting that I'd done well to help him. I'd only messed around with nails and watched. We had spent the rest of the day bathing in the sun, the definition of worry unfathomable to me. My dad had told me many things that day. 

He'd read his bible to me and lectured me sternly to pay attention so I could teach God's word to my own family one day. And he'd divulged how he met my mom, when they'd gotten pregnant…how much he loved her. 

At the time, I didn't recognize—how could I have? I'd only been nine when my dad skipped dinner that night to work in the shed. It hadn't been unusual for him to work late. He'd been a carpenter and often fixed neighbors' furniture in the shed. When I'd gotten curious late that night, I warmed my dad's dinner and found my way to his workspace…

…where I found him swinging from the ceiling.

We'd always liked to swing together, with me on his lap and him kicking his feet out from underneath us. He hadn't brought me along that time. 

There hadn't been any warnings. No letter…only a note to my mom. 

I'm sorry I wasn't brave enough to stick around. Give Simon my plates from now on. I will always love you both.

It'd taken me a while to understand the burden of caring for my mom and I had become a disease to him. He'd handled everything, from leaking ceilings in the rainy season to working countless hours to provide money for us. 

My dad had always refused to let my mom exhaust herself with work, and I had been too young for a job. 

I fell out of school at fourteen, after my mom had moved us to California, and joined a junior military recruitment after learning she was pregnant with my first sister. And for a while, I'd resented her for marrying someone else. Having children and forgetting about my dad. But we'd needed money, and marrying a military veteran who'd lost his leg in a war against Germany allowed us to survive on reparations for a while. My mom had only done what she needed to take care of me.

I understood clearly now. 

I cared about my stepfather, of course, and I knew my mom had grown to love him deeply. But he and I weren't close. I didn't know what kind of relationship I was supposed to have with him. My heart had expressed that it couldn't hold the same love for him as it did my biological dad.

That'd be impossible.

After my dad's death, my mom would cry whenever she cooked for me. I could taste the tears that had fallen into my soup and dissipated in the vegetable broth. And I resonated with her emotions whenever I took a bite of warm bread and it stayed stuck in my throat. Tears blanketed her freckled cheeks whenever she'd come home from dates with wealthy city men who'd only visit the countryside for a good laugh with their champagne-drinking friends. 

Any decent-paying job my mom pursued turned her away because she couldn't afford a car for reliable transportation. So, she'd make a small sum cooking for our neighbors. 

She'd been popular for a while since she was an excellent cook. Word had spread quickly in our town that she was selling home-cooked meals, so she made her home in the kitchen, leaving only to go to the market, walk me to school, or deliver her dishes miles across town. She had persevered through the snow, the rain, and the blazing heat until the soles of the only pair of shoes she owned were worn. 

And when she came home, she would bathe herself and get ready for a long night out, hoping to woo someone wealthy with her beauty and heart.

But her soul had never stopped pining for my dad. 

"For a year, I noticed your father becoming distant. He was always anxious for our wellbeing," she'd revealed to me the same year he died. "It worried me. I tried to feed him more—give him my portions so he was always full. But he refused to take from me…take from us."

I wiped my swollen eyes, where the tears kept escaping. And I listened to my mom, even though seeing her cry made me sad. 

"Whenever I suggested I find work, he'd always tell me the most important job was taking care of myself and our son. He believed I was too delicate for any workforce, so he took the burden of providing for us upon himself.

"I always tried to remind him how happy I was, that I didn't need any more than what we already had. I was content with struggling if it meant we could stay together."

But in the end, he still hung himself. 

Even today, I felt the guilt in my mom's heart, locked away in a closet with a key she was sure I couldn't reach. But my dad had passed the key along to me when he died, and the door had been open ever since. I knew my mom blamed herself for failing to save my dad—preventing whatever turmoil he struggled with and hid from us. 

And sometimes…I wondered if my mom felt the same way about me. If she noticed my distance and felt helpless to save a son who hid the key to all the sad things in his heart. 

Deep down, I already knew the answer to that.

Briefly, I pulled my eyes from my journal and studied the lake ahead. I sat alone in the forest this afternoon. The air was warm, but I knew the lake would be cold and relax the stress in my muscles if I were to take a dive. It reminded me of the cold spring deep in the forest surrounding the farm town I grew up in. If I could bring my mom here just once to treat her memory, I would.

I sank my pen to the page in my journal.

I'm sorry, mom, but I'll be leaving you too. If I hand you back the key to your heart, will you promise to prepare a room for me in it? Lock me inside, and I promise to take care of you while I'm gone.