On the night my father died, I sat on the floor with my son who he had guessed was a daughter. I didn’t answer the call, the voice mail told me We think we have your father. Is his name Jack? I had to think for a second to remember and ask my wife Should I go? The first floor was cold Fourth floor was freezing and I shook. The man kneeling at his bedside asked who I was and said I didn’t know he had any family. I said He didn’t. In films they weep and hold hands and forgive and forgive All I could say in a leaned-in voice was You fucked up and it’s fine. I couldn’t touch him, his skin held no peace and I couldn’t spare mine. Tubes cascaded like colorful balustrade. He couldn’t get up if he wanted to if his liver wasn’t scarred like a full moon. The kneeling man – who said he was his pastor explained my father accepted Jesus into his heart now beating slowly and irregularly, no vessel for any ghost but I said Good. That’s good. But really It was nothing to a comatose man and his prodigal son who only returned to a borrowed bed for an obligated Goodbye A pair of sons robbed of his communion one by his death and one by his life.
J Ryan Bermuda is a writer from Redlands, California. His work has been featured in print or online in Ghost Town Literary Magazine, Inlandia Institute, Tin Cannon, and more. His son just learned how to ride a bike. It’s going to be a good year.
Featured Photo by Aly Crouse on Unsplash
Sentience Literary Journal 