My mama always told me I had flawless skin. No lumps, no bumps, no scars. I took pride in it.

My boy Owen was a happy boy. When he was little, I would hold his hand as we navigated the oh-so-dangerous streets to go to the playground. As the sunlit clouds drifted across the clear blue sky, he would ask me to play with him, to push him on the swings and to steady him as he walked across the balance beam. I watched his pint-sized footprints in the playground sand grow into colossal imprints, marking the baseball fields. Even when the sun was setting, and the thin strips of clouds on the horizon turned into strips of gold, I would toss baseballs at him, and he would hit home runs in the desolate fields long after practice had ended.

But life is busy. I found myself saying the word “no” more and more when he pleaded with me to play with him.

“Why don’t you ask your mother?” I told him as I sighed at the never-ending stacks of paper littering my desk. “I’m busy right now.”

“You’re always busy,” he said in a small voice as he walked out of my study.

I felt a pang of guilt, but I brushed it off. I’ll play with him another day.

I knew that I was lying.

                       

“I don’t even remember the last time you spent more than ten minutes talking to Owen,”

I know. “Honey, work has been really busy, I promise I’ll do something with him next week,” No I won’t.

“You’ve been saying you would do something with him for two months! Owen comes to me devastated every time you reject his pleas. George, you are a father. Why won’t you act like it?”

            I’m sorry. “What should I do then?”

“For a start, why don’t you go see him play at his baseball game Thursday?” she replied. “He’s been dying for you to come see him.”

That Thursday, I worked tirelessly so I could leave work early. As I was gathering my things, getting ready to leave, my boss stepped into my office. His gait told me that this wouldn’t just be a casual visit.

Five minutes later, I was slaving away at the work that was again in front of me. Oh well, this won’t take too long, I’ll still be able to make it to Owen’s game.  Before I knew it, the time had slipped through my fingers, and it was well past four.

Shoot! What the heck was I going to do? I quickly packed all of my stuff and sprinted as fast as I could to my car. Maybe I would be able to make the last few minutes of his game.

Earlier, that day had been quite pleasant with sun filtering through the fluffy white clouds and birds chirping. However, something had changed. The clouds had changed from postcard-perfect to tumultuous, ragged, and ominous. Rain had also begun to fall.  It wasn’t the soft, sodden, swollen drops of spring that brought life; it was as if the water was poured out from buckets, demanding entrance into whatever it made contact with. Something felt off, but I figured it was just work starting to take a toll on me. There was no way I was going to be able to see Owen play, but at least I would be able to take him home.

As I pulled up into the parking lot, sirens filled my ears. What the heck is going on today? Is there some special presentation on police cars today or something? But then, I saw the blood.

I threw myself onto my son. Even before I felt for his pulse, I knew that I wouldn’t find it. My son. Time seemed to freeze as I stared into Owen’s eyes. The eyes that were once curiously darting everywhere were now cold and blank, staring into space. The heart that used to beat with love was still. How? Why? Why the hell was this happening to my son? Where the hell was the person who caused this? My breath hitched, and then I heaved a breath. And another breath. I fought for air through a throat clogged with grief. I felt numb; a dull and empty feeling penetrated through my soul, drowning me in bereavement.  No, this can’t be real. Owen is not dead. I wanted to wake up, I wanted to know that this was all a dream.

            The ambulance arrived hastily, screaming with its siren. Slowly and silently, it drove away.

            A little bit later, my wife and I arrived home. We drew the curtains, unplugged the phone, sat on the floor, and wept.

“Hey George!”

I forced a smile as I made my eyes meet the man who dared to call out my name. Owen’s funeral was last week. It was small, but almost everyone in town had heard. I had become a ghost; people looked right through me, and the only words I ever heard were, “I’m sorry for your loss.” But here I was, with the man that had mentored me through college.

“Oliver, how are you?

“I’m doing pretty well; we need to catch up! Are you free right now? We can go over to the coffee shop next door.”

Ten minutes later, I was waiting for my coffee, trying to convince myself that I could still live my life. I dragged myself up in my chair and was struggling to keep a conversation up about work.

“George, how’s Owen doing? He must be about as tall as you now!”

Hearing his name, my body drooped and went limp, as if I had been transformed into a rag doll. My lower lip trembled, and I broke eye contact to keep from crying. The moment had come to face the truth.

My son is gone.

Forever.

-Melody Yu