Zest Lit Issue 2, October 2013 - Page 127

Bundles | Juanita McLellan

They cut my father's clothes off him the night he died. I picked up the ruined

bundle; it was still warm and smelled like my father. My father, who could build anything. Who made our little dog dance; and once rescued a 5 foot black snake from a

neighborhood boy, who wanted to kill it for no other reason than meanness. My father,

who saved a box turtle with a split shell by gluing it back together. My father, who kept

our ancient car running with mechanical know-how and patience. Who could draw with

the talent of an artist. My father, who worked hard all his life, and left nothing much

to show for it except a dilapidated house that neither my brother nor I would want.

We followed the ambulance to the hospital. We couldn't get there fast enough.

Micro Cordial Infarction, the doctor said. That was all. We drove back to the house in

silence. The wood stove had burned itself out. The house was freezing. My father who

loved music, nature and me was gone. The house was empty, quiet, dead. And

my father was gone.