The First Day After

It doesn't feel any different.

To be honest, I thought it would be unfamiliar, like the house would turn upside down and I'd have to live on the ceiling.

I think what hurts the most is how much the same it is. No one is here to comfort me, that hasn't changed. I have to make my own dinner because no one else could before. The only real difference is I have no one to tell my lies to.

As much as I never wanted to believe she'd die, I always knew it would happen.

The tears stream quietly down my face as these thoughts go through my head and my tiny hand rests on the door knob. Finally, I turn the knob and open the door.

The house didn't look any different. The chemical set I'd received for my birthday still cluttered the space in front of my bed. Dirty pots and pans were still in the kitchen sink because I hadn't cleaned them last night. Still, there was a void. One that I couldn't exactly place because ever since she'd fallen ill, it hadn't really been filled anyway.

So what does a five-year-old do with himself when he doesn't have any parents to make his meals; to comfort him when he sees death; to tuck him in at bed time and tell him everything will be alright because the boogeyman under the bed doesn't eat sad children? I wish I knew because it would make dealing with this a whole lot easier.

Sure, I've been making my own food for awhile now because since she was sick she couldn't do it. No one around here is very nice to me. I may run around in the mornings causing a raucous when I yell, "The pirates are coming, the pirates are coming!" But that doesn't mean I deserve to be ignored when I'm being quiet.

I get my step ladder and place it in between the sink and the stove. The pot fills with water and I set it to boil. I'm not really hungry but it's been routine for awhile now.

When I finish my chore I walk toward her empty bed and when I'm standing directly in front of it my eyes widen and fill with tears. She was here just yesterday. She told to be good and stop running around telling such crazy stories. Then she told me I reminded her of my father.

I fall to my knees and sob into her empty bed. I want her to come back and tell me those things again. I want someone to come in my door and finish making my rice for me because I always seem to burn it or stop cooking it too soon. I want someone to come and take me away from this familiar house with these unfamiliar feelings.

I'm all alone on the first day after she died. I hope I won't be alone for all the rest.