The Passed Note Issue 4 June 2017 - Page 26

Then, without any warning, the darkness was gone.


I am standing facing my dad, except it isn’t my dad as I remember him. He looks younger than I ever remembered, with a thick shock of black hair and a dark scruff over his cheeks. He is wearing a faded polo shirt and blue jeans, and he stands in our old bedroom in the house in Queens where we lived before the accident, gently rocking a baby in the crook of his arm. My dad grins and makes a face at the baby.

“Hey, little buddy. How’s my little poop factory? Hm? Any surprises for daddy?”

He puts his hand on the baby’s belly, covering it completely. The baby gurgles happily.

“I don’t think your diaper’s wet,” he coos. “I certainly hope it’s not.”

I feel myself smiling, and become suddenly aware of my body. I am so so so tired, and every muscle aches, but I feel warm with happiness. This is my new family, I think. Tim. My three beautiful children.

A baby begins to cry. My dad, still rocking the baby in his arm, glances over at me and put his hand tenderly on my bare upper arm. I feel the gentle pressure of his strong hand against my plump flesh, and the caress of his thumb feels so good against my aching muscles. “Mir, I think that’s Stephanie. Can you grab her, and I’ll warm up some mi–”