Memories

T

hunder. Rain. Black. Black casket, black robes, black umbrellas, black memories. It was raining when my father was buried. Throughout the funeral, I thought my memories were forged. Why are there so many people I do not know? People came up to me and repeated the same lines, “Your father was a great man.

His heart was bigger than his contribution to philosophical thought.” I thought myself evil for intrusive thoughts, but I could not help them. "Why is that not the man I remember?” As the color black swarmed me, my father's casket shined brightly and alone. White lilies were placed on top of it. I never understood funerals.

Why pretend to love someone you avoided your entire life? Why say nice words when you couldn't say them when the person was alive? He loved the color white, so why is everything so black? I couldn't hear the priest's words.

All I could focus on was the sound of falling rain. I tried to wrack my brain for any memory of mine that may be related to both him and the rain, but nothing came to mind. Thunder illuminated the sky as the casket was lowered. A rabbit. I saw a rabbit running. It was drenched. I wanted to run after it.

The priest called on me to say a few words. The words did not feel mine. So scripted. I can hear the words, but they don't feel mine. The falling rain sounds beautiful. He will never know rain again. The rain feels like mine.

##

My father was a brilliant man. Jacques Fritz: his name was not unfamiliar to any student of philosophy. Sometimes it felt like the students of his books knew him a lot better than I ever did. He raised me. I had been surrounded by philosophic thought for as long as I remember.

His biggest inspiration was Bertrand Russell. Despite philosophy being his lifelong pursuit, his love language was food. He showed his love for the people around them by cooking food for them, something I understood only later on in life. I associate my childhood with a very specific memory.

He came home from a seminar one day and asked me, "What do you think of morals?” I was 7, and the right and wrong morals existed for me when I got the things I wanted. He looked at me, waiting for an answer while I sat on the floor with my coloring book. I saw something shift in his eyes. His eyes would become clouded whenever he got lost in his mind.

He stood there in silence for what felt like an eternity because everything in childhood feels eternal. Then his eyes shifted, and he looked at me. "How about I teach you how to cook pasta today?” I did not want to leave behind my book, but I got up. I could not understand much, only that it took an eternity for the pasta to be cool enough for me to eat. That night, I heard him sobbing in the attic again.

My chain of thoughts was broken by someone hugging me. Who is this person? I am still at the funeral; the pasta did not last for an eternity, my father's sobbing form is gone, and I greet and hug strangers in his place. I rub the back of whoever it is and look around. Most people are gone now; the funeral should be over in an hour. I focused on the vase in front of me, black roses. I wanted to go up there and shred the roses to pieces. I wanted to scream, "HE LOVED THE COLOR WHITE!” Instead, I hugged the next person in line and stared at the vase.

##

I threw my gloves into the bin as I exited the clean room. My research has hit a block again. I looked at the moth, trying to get closer to the white light on the ceiling. At this point in my career, I feel like that moth, pursuing something that may turn out to be a dead end. I shook my head to get rid of the intrusive thoughts and made my way to the changing room.

I unlocked my phone. "My condolences on your father’s passing. If you need someone to talk to, you can always lean on me.” How do I make people understand what I feel is nothingness? Nothing had changed from when he was here now that he is gone. Right now, more than ever, I want to separate myself from the blood that connects me to him. Do I hate him? No. I am indifferent to him. Indifference may be worse because the word is reserved for strangers, but I do not think we have ever been anything but strangers.

I exit the world of my thoughts as I see Andrew walking toward me with two cups of coffee in his hand. The stone step was cold. He says I carry the same clouded look in my eyes as my father; he says I get lost more often than I stay. He gave me a sympathetic smile and my coffee. “Did you hear about the new exchange researcher who will be joining us?” I shook my head no as I took a sip of my coffee. It got cold too fast. The heat isn’t eternal anymore. “She is a brilliant researcher and is also researching the possible implications of Artificial Intelligence as a modern religion. And get this; she even has the same last name as you. Frietz. Annette Frietz." I felt a smile creeping up my lips as I thought the next time someone talked about my father, I would refer them to Annette. Same last name, so who would ever know that she isn't the daughter? What a silly thought. But someone who was researching the same thing I was? That intrigued me. Maybe she could be of help in getting me out of my block. I looked forward to her arrival.

##

I can't move. I feel pressure on my chest. Someone's there. My mind is working, but my body refuses to respond. I hear my father's voice. I cannot figure out what he is saying. Click, click, click. Heels, again. I cannot differentiate between the world of my dreams and the world in reality. My room is dark. Moonlight enters the room through a slit in the velvet curtains. I cannot breathe. I cannot differentiate between the demon of my sleep paralysis and the demon that made my father sob in the attic. Breathe in, breathe out. Click, click, click. Is someone there? I try to move my finger. The weight on my chest slowly goes away. I sit up. Only darkness awaits to greet me from my slumber.