What Makes You Think I’m Melodramatic?

1 minute read   ·   15/ Life as Fiction
Scroll this

The man balked at the thought of having to leave his dog behind. “Y’a mean I’mma supposed jus’ walk away? That ain’t right. The fella may ain’t be people but we’s have an understandin’. We’s brothers. I love ‘im like that.”

It was early, and the sun was still rumbling underneath the sheets. The man was shivering in the cold, the wind erasing the rough edges of his scaly skin. Sixty-seven years old and part-time relative to a muttish hellfiend from Harlem, his body shook left and then right in his wastebasket bed. Papers ruffled.

“Elias, wake up. Wake up, Elias, you’s havin’ that dream again!” Nudged by his neighbour-next-corner, the man rubbed his eyes and glared at the rich, burnt sky. He had that dream again.

Seven years later, after the death of his dog and his neighbor-next-corner, he walked three hundred and sixty-three miles to reach the heartland of America. Took a deep breath, knocked on the door and readied himself. He practiced his words over and over, hoping and wishing for the door to open and tears of joy to engulf the block.

“Hi, son, I missed you. I love you.”