speaking of 04
i remember drowsing on the hotel room couch in a sleepy haze. people were talking over me in hushed voices, tired voices, cracked voices full of emotion.
“…couldn’t recognize the faces..”
”..must do autopsies to identify..”
“…flying them home..”
”.. it’s been weeks now.”
i remember lying there, trying to comprehend that my father was really, truly gone. after three weeks of waiting for him to show up at the hotel room door, weary and weak but smiling, laughing at us for being so worried, saying that of course he could take care of himself — lots of “don’t be silly”s and “don’t cry anymore”s.
i don’t remember much after that, i must have gone back to sleep, overwhelmed by a sudden, impossible reality.
my mother woke me next, gently shaking my shoulder. her face was so lined, so drawn, so pale. i was overtaken by a sense of deep helplessness.
“mum.”
“what is it?”
“they said— they said— we wouldn’t be able to recognize pa. they said his body had been out for too long.” i gulped out. “what if we can’t tell him from the others?”
thousands of emotions crossed her face in that moment. then her death mask crumbled, and she pulled me close. her sobs were so quiet, i could not tell that she was crying until i felt her warm tears on the side of my face.
i sat there, engulfed in her arms, feeling small and big and young and old and silent and loud all at once.
out of her quiet sobbing, i heard her whisper, half to herself. “why would they tell you that? why would they tell you that?”
i could not tell if her tears, her grief were for my father, or for me.
