Dad’s Dead

“Dad’s dead,” my sister’s voice said on the other end. I heard, but I didn’t feel. I knew, but I

didn’t understand.

My mind is capable of the most horrifying blockbusters that would make Tarantino look

like a PG-13 director. Where others see a deserted backpack on the subway, I see a bomb

exploding, detaching limbs from bone. Body parts flying through space like sharks in

“Sharknado”.

I’ve imagined my dad, my best friend, my only living parent and only family, leaving this

earth in an exhausting countless number of violent ways.

The powerful cold Tramontana wind blows him into the pool of his Menorquin country

house. Splash! Face down, his lungs fill with chlorine water. The same water that used to turn my

blonde ponytail green now turns him green. His lifeless body rests on the surface like a floatie.

Or he sits down at his wooden farm table to enjoy his favorite lunch, steaming French fish

stew. But just before the big spoon of clams can reach his lips, lightning strikes his brain and his

head drops into the bowl of bouillabaisse. Batchhhh! Again, he drowns. This time in soup.

Or he tiptoes back into the house after his morning shower outside clutching onto the towel

around his waist. His wet feet meet the tiles like ice, and kapow! His skull kisses the terracotta and

smashes open like a pumpkin. Blood stains the shower water like paint.

Or he steps onto an old creaky ladder to paint the sun faded roof. An army of angry bees

covers his eyes, his head, his chest in a buzzing cloud. He tumbles over backwards like a domino,

smashing spine first onto the cold sandstone below, snapping in two like a fortune cookie.

None of this happened.

He simply gulped down the last drop of his pinot noir night cap, said “sleep tight angel”,

went to bed and never woke up. His breath just became air. I find this ordinary, PG-13 way of

dying almost more painful to feel, and understand. Where does the life go? Where does the love

go? Why does the heart stop if isn’t crushed, punched, forced to?

The most violent death is the most nonviolent of all.