text: Time slips away faster than most people expect. Why only a couple minutes ago you were young and in your twenties exploring life to the limit. The breeze, light and airy, stroking the sides of your skin. Birds whistling tunes on key while flying high above, mirroring how you feel. The store clerks have smiles on their faces, ready to serve you on a whim. But, most importantly, the way the world was filled with the most radiant and perpetual color. The reds were strong and bright, while the blues were deep and understanding. But time will slowly let you forget. It will displace your memories and let you only keep a few. You wonder if the world was really as brilliant as you thought or if it was only your mind trying to make the good old days seem better than they were. The color in your skin has faded and the wrinkles around your eyes droop almost as if to be holding the weight of the past. But you're only in your late forties and this all seemed to be happening all too quickly. How could time take away your life and your dreams and your, well, everything? Days fade into nights and nights turn into days. You don’t even bother to look at the sun rise and set, for the colors are as mesmerizing as greys or blacks. The fireplace lights up the carpet and sofa that were placed thoughtfully years before. You moved them from time to time and the prints still stay set in the carpet. The kettle was whistling a high shrieking noise that nobody could ignore for long. You debate with yourself to just let the noise sink to the background. Your patience gives up after a minute and you haul yourself from the couch. You pour the boiling water into a mug that says Number 1 Best Dad and walk toward your cabinet. Your eyes carefully observe each packet. You let your mouth remember which flavor it was in the mood for. An untraditional flavor that had been sent by your kids catches your eye; Caramel Apple Dream . Underneath it read Herbal Tea . You mutter to yourself about how caramel apple and herbal seem oxymoronic. You hesitantly grab the packet, unsure if it was going to set your stomach in a mood, and add it to the boiling water. Grabbing your mug, you sit at your usual spot and wait for the tea to set in. The fire’s flames get excited and burst about until calmly claiming its place back against the log. It does that over and over again. You wonder to yourself how fire can get so happy repeatedly and then remind yourself that fire has no emotions and is just heat and light. The hot liquid burns the cracks in your lips but you had become immune to this type of pain years ago. You can feel the heat trickle through your whole body and finally, you shiver at the immediate warmth. You sit there for what seems like hours, arguing with yourself about how you should have bought a television to fill in the empty space. The shadow of your couch slowly starts moving across the floor, seeping into nothing. It is completely dark and the moon is glowing onto your skin. Little tiny spurts of flame still lie on the log of wood but then they too disappear, leaving only grey ashes to scatter around. The next morning was just like the last and your eyes reluctantly open but then close immediately to the sight of the bright light. You force yourself to reopen them and look around. Same old, same old. Your bed tucked in the corner and across from that a wooden dresser, crafted by some old stickler. At least that’s what they told you at the one and only yard sale you ever went to. Your bathroom seems a little grimmer than it did before. You grab your toothbrush and rub the bristles along your teeth, finishing off with your tongue. The mail was slow; only a couple of letters, all different sizes. All of it junk mail. You open each one and read through them examining everything as if they weren’t companies trying to steal your money. Your hands brush against one that you haven't seen before. Shipped from Sunny Hill’s Nursing Home . You open the letter and read the message, making sure not to miss a single detail. Dear Jack McNugget, We would like to inform you about the hospitalization of your father. He is suffering from cancer and only has a short time left. The hospital and Sunny Hill have been working very hard to ensure your father’s recovery, but he is not doing so well. We can only hope that you will come and visit him before it's too late. His last request is to say goodbye to you. Sincerely, Sunny Hill’s Manager Pete Douglas Thoughts were swirling through your mind and you couldn’t stay put and concentrate on just one. Your feet stumble to the trash as you throw all the letters inside, even the ones you hadn't taken the chance to read. Cancer, short time left, hospital, recovery, hope, last request, goodbye, father, Father. It had been years, maybe decades since you have last heard from this man. The man who now has the audacity to call himself your father. The one who missed kid’s recitals, weddings, Christmas’s, and Fourth of July weekends. This man was the epitome of failure. If anything he wasn’t family at all. He was just an old man dying in a nursing home. Dying . It didn’t take long for you to realize that you were not going. The last thing you want to do is give him the satisfaction of your presence at the last moments of his life when he never bothered to come to yours. The fulfillment of choosing your answer to the letter makes you calm down. Your leg stops shaking and then the little pings in your head slow down. You head for the cabinet and grab a packet of green tea, blaming the cause of the letter on the absurd flavor of caramel apple. The letters didn’t stop coming. The once-monthly letters turned into weekly terrors. You stop bothering to even open them and read the silly string of notes like do we have the right address? and let us know a date you are willing to come by . Your once standard day has turned into overflowing thoughts that keep bouncing around your head. Darlin’ you got to let me know Should I stay or should I go You notice the sound from the radio and ignore so many thoughts to listen to the words. If you say that you are mine I'll be here 'til the end of time So you got to let me know Should I stay or should I go? The words took a whole different meaning. Would you regret this decision for the rest of your life? The thought of your “father” sitting on his bedside with no hand to hold. Would you be doing the exact same thing that your “father” had done to you? But didn’t he deserve it? Wasn’t this one thing you held against him that he didn’t have? The kitchen table was scattered with loose pieces of paper all trying to convey one message. The glare from your glasses bounces into the sun. It was noon and lunchtime but you weren’t hungry in the slightest. The smell of sweet roses fills the air. You breathe in a long breath and let it out slowly, glancing at the open window that you swear you didn’t open. Your bushel of roses were in a high swing of motion; the buds taking life and twirling in the wind. Your brown cabinet and ill-favored white refrigerator stood stiller than before. Everything seemed still and hushed. Car Keys . The drive was long and trees were dispersed in every direction. Google maps was doing its fair share of talking, for it had not been used in years. Turn left in 100 yards. Turn left in 50 yards. Turn left in 10 yards. Turn left in 5 yards. Turn left in 2 yards. Turn left in 1 yard. Turn left in a half yard. The sign in the front of the building looks as if it is trying to portray happiness and don’t worry we will take care of your loved ones but don’t forget to pay, because we do have dumpsters in the back . The only feeling you get from it is dread. The dread of getting closer to a place that was going to either fill you with anxiety or content. Welcome to Sunny Hill’s Nursing Home This whole situation should have come with a warning; don’t open this letter, because you will most likely have to see your dad who is not really your dad die. Or worse, he does not die and he recovers and you have to get to know him again. But cancer was a killer disease and he was not going to recover, hopefully . You pull into the parking lot and turn off the ignition once you settle in your parking spot. You look up at the building and take in the greys and, attempted to be, happy yellows. The door looks inviting enough, while the windows are barred closed. You step out of your car and look at the building once more; last chance to back away . One of many similar-looking nurses leads you through a narrow hallway. The walls were filled with pictures and fliers. The floor was white but speckled with brown and grey spots. The clicking of her heels on the ground makes your palms sweat. “Oh I’m just so glad that you finally decided to come,” the nurse says merrily. “All he talks about is being able to see you.” She flashes you a smile, almost if to be a peace offering. “Well, that’s nice,” You can’t tell if you're lying to her or yourself but you gulp the words down and don’t say anything more. You turn down another hallway, same decor. She finally stops in front of a room with number 27 on the door. “Here we are,” she glances back at you and then knocks on the door. “Mr. McNugget, someone is here to see you,” she calls softly. “Who?” Says an unfamiliar familiar voice. “Your son,” she looks up at you, smiling reassuringly. “Let him in. Let him in,” the voice says. Each let him in, more lively than the first. The nurse opens the door and then touches your shoulder before turning down the hallway back to the front desk. You walk in and see the dim light trying to seep through the closed blinds. A small desk sits in the corner with a wooden chair. The bed across from the desk is all white with a white blanket and an even whiter pillowcase. There's a dresser next to the bed with pictures of you and your children. You squint at the sight of the photographs. “How long has it been?” He asks you. You look up to the person lying on the bed and take him all in. The little white hairs that tried to survive on the top of his head reveal the smooth skin. His face on the other hand is wrinkled and grayer than yours. His arms lay neatly beside his body covered in a blanket. His hand taps the side of his upper leg. “I don’t know,” you reply bitterly. “I do.” He states. “18 years.” “Okay,” you say with a harsh k. The clock on the wall ticks at the same rate as your father’s hand taps on his leg. Time passes by and minutes go ticking away. He stares at your face while you look away, glancing at different parts of the wall. This was worse than watching paint dry . “What have you been up to?” He asks you, trying to sound eager. “Not much,” you say. A minute goes passing by and then you release the tension that has been ready to explode for more than 18 years. “You never were around. I invited you to my kid's recitals, Christmas dinners, all the holidays. You never wanted to attend anything. And then when you said you would come, you never showed up. But what could I expect? You've always been this way and now you want me to come see you on your deathbed. It’s funny how things work you know.” Each word comes pouring out your mouth like how water comes out of a faucet. Some drops of water escape from the rush, but for the most part, it was all solid and clear. “At least I know that I’m a better person than you ever were. I was there for my kids, you know? They love me. They still call and ask how I’m doing because I never abandoned them.” The tears that you had kept repressed didn’t want to stay and you didn’t know if you were strong enough to not let them pour. He lay still not seeming to be affected by a single word that you said. His face was blank and mute. Emotionless. This enrages you even more. It was like he didn’t care. He didn’t care that he had hurt you, that he had abandoned you. “So you're not going to say anything. Did you just expect me to come over here and forget everything because you're about to die?” You let the last word slip out and then immediately close your mouth shut. “No.” “No? What do you mean no?” Your face was beet red and you knew it wasn’t going to turn lighter any time soon. “No, I didn’t expect you to forgive me.” He said, even more blankly than before. You pause for a second, letting your father feel the same uneasiness of not knowing your response right away. “Who said anything about forgiveness?” You start pacing around the room. It seems as if the walls are coming closer together, trying to crush you. “Well,” He was lost for words and just watched you pace. “I’m never going to forgive you,” you say while halting to a stop. “ Never .” The air around you becomes irritably suffering. Each breath is sharper than the first. Then you realize tears are falling from your eyes and hitting the ground below. You fall to the ground and start sobbing. You can't tell what ached more, your throat or your heart . You feel a presence next to you. It’s not tall, maybe 5’8”. Your father. He drops to the ground next to you and wraps his arm around you. You want to push him away, but you don’t because this was something that you needed that you didn’t know you ever needed. The comfort from your father. The man in your life that was supposed to teach you how to not be a boy, but become a man yourself. “Why?” You ask while sitting on the rocking chair on the porch outside the nursing home. “I didn’t think you wanted me to come and that the invitations were only a courtesy.” Your father says while rocking in the same motion as you. You both have tea in your hands and are sipping it slowly. The outburst in the room had only made things more complicated. It took a while for you to ease up. Finally, your father asked if you wanted to go outside and talk things through. You said yes. “That’s about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. If I was inviting you, of course, I wanted you to come.” You say flatly. “When I walked out on your mom when you were a kid. I did it because I thought I was going to be a burden. I know now that that was dumb and immature. I left her with the responsibility of raising a child. You turned out great by the way.” He turns to face you, attempting to smile, but the mood wasn’t right for a smile and he knew that. You spent several more days at the nursing home, talking with your father. You hadn't forgiven him just like you said and maybe you never will. He died on your seventh day there and you didn’t feel sad. It was a bittersweet feeling. You drove home that day with a blank face, not paying attention to the trees this time. When you walk inside your house you click on your voice machine and listen to your children's worried messages. When the machine beeps again, you get up and look over outside your window. Something was different. The roses were a strong red. You look up at the sky and it is a fair blue. You then turn around quickly and look at your table. The brown is deep and rich. Your refrigerator is a milky white. You walk swiftly through your house and notice how every color is intense and mesmerizing. You walk outside and stand still, feeling the sensation of the light wind brush against your clothes. The birds are singing a tune that you swear you’ve heard on the radio. Your neighbors walk their dogs on the sidewalk looking at you with a question on their face but smile and wave anyway. Maybe time heals and maybe it doesn’t. Maybe this wasn’t real and you were only imagining this. Maybe you were always stuck in your own head, not able to notice the color. Or maybe your mind dug up the color that was hidden deep inside. You watch the sunset that night with a smile on your face. The lavish oranges and pinks seeped into one another, slowly fading away. You turn your head to the ever so changing sky and mouth I forgive you .