Fear of the Father

If black is the color of fear and mourning, then white is the color of emptiness and absence.

His world is white now.

Everything from the bedsheets and walls to the nurse’s sensible shoes. White.

“At least tell me why you hate me!” he says. “I think I’m owed that much.”

“You’re owed?”

I smirk.

“What in your experience suggests you’re owed anything? Owed by whom?”

“I am not a bad man,” he insists.

His eyes are weak and scared. He coughs deeply. So deeply that his bones rattle.

“Are you still my father?” he asks.

“No,” I say.

“My son?”

“No,” I say.

“Who am I?”

And even now I am unable to tell him.

“I don’t want to die alone,” he says.

I watch vital statistics on a black monitor. Pulse. Blood pressure. Respiratory rate. All falling now.

I am scared.

I am alone.

And I am dying.

My eyes grow heavy and close as the world around me fades to black. And I miss even the emptiness of white.