The Return
Just a loose scene, not part of anything bigger. Creative Writing class assignment.
I remember it well. It was only a few nights before that year’s Halloween. People retreated hastily into their homes as a decrepit figure made its way through the muddy streets of the town. Some took it as a well pulled-off prank because of the date, but nothing in Father’s appearance was fake. I admit his choice of clothing was not the best for the occasion, though—with that cane and ragged black overall he wore as a raincoat, he looked remarkably like the Grim Reaper.
But in us, his image inspired much more than just fear. Few of those who had seen his long-gone days of glory remained, and those who did would be ill-pressed to recognize him. Little of that enlightening man remained in the ghost who came to us that night.
We were in the kitchen, finishing off dinner. The house seemed to creak under the strength of the rain that hammered its roof.
“Did someone just knock?” Mother said suddenly, her wrinkled skin twisted by a look that betrayed deep worry. I had not heard anything.
“Maybe someone got his days wrong and thinks it’s already Halloween.” My brother tried to laugh, half-heartedly. In normal circumstances we would all have laughed, but something in Mother’s expression told us that this knock was not just an everyday knock. I think that, however hard to believe that may be, she knew Father was back.
She made her way to the door slowly, her hand on the walls to keep her balance. My brother and I waited in the kitchen, with motion-blurred thoughts and a dangerously fast heartbeat.
“Who is it?” we heard her ask through the door, her voice unstable. A hoarse and incomprehensible whisper made its way to the kitchen. We heard the door creak open slowly—a sharp intake of air—convulsions of gasps and cries.
We ran out of the kitchen. The air seemed to go solid when we saw those white skeletal hands gripping Mother, stopping us at the kitchen portal. For a second I, too, thought Death had come, before I saw that Mother held tightly onto the figure. And then I recognized him—through the pale and bony face I saw the last vestiges of the warming expression I would wake up to every day over two decades ago. My heartbeat tripped before it began to race again; my stomach churned with a mixture of love, pity and longing. The man who had lived as a faded memory in the back of my mind all of my life was standing right in front of me. An ocean formed behind my eyes, and I did not try to keep it from overflowing.
I joined the hug before the emotions clogged in my throat could keep me from moving, and my brother came right after me. Our tears mimicked the rain outside as we stood at the door in that penguin-huddle. He looked half-dead, but Father was back. We were a complete family again.
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