This piece represents family, forgiveness, and fall. I wanted to write a story representative of Generation F. However, the letter “f” can stand for anything, and that is how these three words come into play.
The air is still and silent. Time almost seems frozen here. The trees are naked and showing their bare bark to the world. Such deep brown reminds me of mud or dirt that seems to complement the white snow. It’s so blinding, it almost stings my eyes. Outside, I feel myself relax. I haven’t slept properly since finishing finals. Normally going outside helps me clear my mind.
As I walk, I see a snow angel fading away. It reminds me of winter days with my family when I was little. I’m going back home in three days for the holidays. Then it’s back to school to face adulthood.
“Adult.” The term has followed me since my father died when I was thirteen. After his death, my mother and I tended to each other, trying to keep our heads above a sea of depression. I was worried about losing her, too.
My father was just supposed to go to the supermarket. I saw him leave the house and get into the car. That night, police knocked on our door to inform my mother and me that my father had died in a drunk-driving accident.
“Huh?”
An audible gasp escapes from me. I could swear I just saw a jersey jacket with the number 10 and the name “Shannon” emblazoned on the back. I rub my eyes but the jacket is still there.
“Dad?” I call out.
I look up and see the jacket beginning to fade away.
“Dad.”
It’s not real. This must be a trick. It has to be. I’m tired from all this studying, the crush of finals week. I take off my gloves and reach out to touch the snow. I want to feel the cold snow and wake up. I feel nothing.
Instead of a handful of snow, a yellow leaf sits in my hand.
I rub my eyes again. More snow becomes autumn leaves floating down around me. I’m getting scared now. I pinch myself to wake up. But when I drop to my knees to try to grab the snow, it is no longer there.
Instead, I see grass, light green as grapes, coating the ground. My fingers curl into a fist, picking up a pile of dirt in my hands. My hands begin to tremble when I feel mud squish through my fingers. Boom-boom. Boom-boom. My heart pounds against my chest. I lift my head and see the trees are covered in leaves of yellow, orange, green, and brown.
That’s when I see somebody moving in the shadows. I stand up, heart pounding, and start chasing the shadow. I almost stumble when I see who it is.
“Dad.”
My father, Elliot Shannon, is standing three feet from me. His tan skin makes him glow, his brown eyes twinkle with pride.
“It’s good to see you, Robin.”
I bite my lip in order to stop tears from forming. I stand straighter and face him.
“Robin, you have . . .” He pauses and looks at me. “You’ve grown up as I always thought you would.”
My jaw clenches and water springs to my eyes. I feel my face heat up.
“Dad, I-I-I missed you.”
“Robin . . .”
Beep-beep. Dad grabs his keys and puts on his coat.
“Dad, my friends are coming over today, buy some popcorn and chips,” I say. “Okay, little Robin,” he says. I walk outside with him and notice the autumn leaves piling up. I need to rake them soon. He gets into the car. Vroom-vroom. “See you in ten,” he says.
“I’m sorry for taking your childhood away from you,” Dad says, heavy.
I take a deep breath. “You didn’t take my childhood away from me,” I say.
“Shannon, don’t lie to me.” Father never called me by my last name unless it was serious. “I know—”
I can’t help but scream, “You were supposed to come home, not get yourself killed.” I raise my arm, exasperated, and feel tears streaming down my face.
Dad stands there saying nothing. I don’t need him to, I can tell what he would say. Dad comes to me and wraps his arms around me, placing the jersey jacket on me. The strangest thing is, I actually feel the jacket: its weight and smell of soap and grass.
“Bye, Robin,” he says with twinkling eyes and a half-smile.
“Goodbye, Father.”
The wind blows around me. I close my eyes and raise my arm to protect my face. I open my eyes again to see a white light. It’s shining brightly, yet I feel so cold. It’s snow. I realize I’m lying on the ground. I try to get up but feel a heavy weight on me. As I move my arm, a sleeve falls—it is the jersey jacket. The one my father gave me.
“Are you okay?” says a concerned voice.
A shadow hovers over me. I can’t tell who it is.
“Stay with me. I’ll call 911.”
My eyes begin to droop. I hear somebody in the distance saying, “Stay with me.” I curl my body and close my eyes.