Resplendent by M. J. Abraham

you can get done in a week? If you ask me, that’s a whole hell of a lot.
    I stood in the middle of what was soon to be my ex-living room, to take in my surroundings. My eyes fell on my grandmother’s handmade quilt. She’d always place it strategically over the armrest of our brown leather three-seat sofa, in an effort to cover a cigarette burn. Then I noticed his oxygen concentrator machine resting on top of the dark walnut coffee table, which I suddenly had the urge to kick. Various pictures hung on the wall, and my eyes zoned in to one of my mom and dad together. I felt a sliver of comfort knowing that my mom wouldn’t be alone anymore. She’d welcome my dad wherever they were. I thought about them for a moment. Were they dancing to Frank Sinatra, their favorite musician? Was she teasing him because she knew he had forgotten to pay the electric bill last month? My father was brilliant, but man, how could he forget to pay one of the most important bills? Maybe they were watching down on me with worry, wondering how I would manage to take care of the family. Perhaps they were the reason I was standing — they were strengthening me from afar.
    I cracked my neck and reached into my pocket, pulling out his old lighter. It was silver-toned and in the shape of a woman’s body. I remembered the day he showed it to me. He was grinning like a dirty old man, only he wasn’t one. He was just being a guy who smoked and wanted a funny lighter. I had it at the viewing last night and the burial this morning. I didn’t take it out. I kept it hidden — my little secret memory of my father. It was a reminder of his sense of humor and the addiction that cost him his life. Truth was, the very best conversations we ever had were outside on the porch, during one of his smoking breaks.
    I flicked it and held the flame up to my face, watching the eerie glow that cast a shadow over my thumb. My life felt like it was caught up in flames without any physical proof but the pain. I was burning inside. I had twenty, sixty, a hundred things in this house, yet I was utterly empty.
    A pile of emotions kept pushing me in one direction and pulling me in another. I didn’t understand. Why was a healthy, strong, and caring man suddenly gone at the age of forty-nine? I was angry at God for taking him, and I tried to control my rage, but then, I looked at each useless object in the room — things I would give up in a heartbeat just to have him in my life for one more day. I wished the tiny flame I held would jump out of my hand and land on the rug so it could destroy everything in here. Material things don’t matter when the most important things in life can’t be replaced . The void in me was the worst part of it all. I feared it would never be filled with what he brought into my life: wisdom, family values, and security.
    Guilt leeched on to me for feeling all those things, because even emptiness meant I was still alive .
    I’d been to funerals and had people I cared about pass away, but this was our first real experience as far as I could remember. This was my father, my hero. He’d taught me how to throw a ball, fought for me when my asshole of an 8 th grade math teacher accused me of cheating — and I hadn’t . He welcomed anyone into our house and offered them food, or a drink, or just the comfort of friendship.
    Dad, can I borrow twenty bucks?
    Dad, can we order pizza?
    Dad, I need to borrow your car.
    Dad, Dad, Dad. Always giving and never taking.
    My mother died when V and I were young. I remember crying, but it wasn’t the same as now. My father I knew . I cried once, and now when I wanted to cry, I couldn’t. It wasn’t because I was a guy. My body just didn’t let me cry. I clicked the lighter off and put it back in my pocket. So what else could I do? I had only scratched the surface of processing that I had to leave his lifeless body at the hospital, and accept that cancer had won its battle. Making the phone calls to our