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My sister was about a week old when my brother and I came home from school that day to find our father sobbing, though not uncontrollably. This was when ‘real men’ didn’t cry. He was 44 years old.
There were rooms on either side of the long hallway. Bedrooms and guest rooms were on one side and the dining room, living room and kitchen were on the other. The staircase with the banister that we didn’t slide on anymore was to the right of the hallway as we walked in. On the left side was where Pop was sitting.
“Your mother’s gone,” he said.
We didn’t understand completely. I should say, I didn’t understand completely, I really don’t know about my brother. But, it didn’t seem to me that she was so gone that she couldn’t come back. I mean, I didn’t think she was dead. Whatever ‘dead’ might have meant to a six year old.
He went on. “Your mother has left us and she isn’t coming back. But don’t worry. I will NEVER leave you.”
We didn’t worry as long as Pop was around. There was never any cause to worry. Maybe we should have worried.
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