A therapeutic writing prompt that life events led me to write about.

The man lying in bed is a shell of who my father was. Now, he’s withering away, and his time is up.

Tubes of life latch on like Michelob ULTRA cans at his favorite bar. He paid for those drinks and rounds for his buddies with my allowance. The money he traded me was Monopoly money. When they thanked him for the free drinks, they really meant to thank me.

You’re welcome, fellas.

His eyes have been kept closed, ignoring those around him in the room. When the gardener touched me as a child, his eyes were also closed.

”Out of sight, out of mind,” he’d always say.

His hand reached out, not for my hand, but for the pills on the side. What paid for the glamorous life he gave me when I had nothing is now his savior, for just a moment.

For those were the same enablers that laid his oldest son, my brother, to rest. His musical maracas are the highlight of his day when the music plays. I wanted to throw them away.

When you did look at me, you saw features in me that resembled you. So, why didn’t you call me one of yours?

Better question: Why am I even here?

The shell of that life of thirty years cracked away, and I left the remains in his final moments as I walked out that door.

Thanks for reading!

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It felt good to write this up. When you get a message like this from a family member who has raised you your whole life, and just days before your 34th birthday, the story just comes together.