Memory

The memory takes place in my house in Dover, New Hampshire. But it’s not the significance of the specific place that had me recall this memory so well. It is what happened there, one afternoon. I believe that certain events and actions in a specific moment can make a place that you have gone home to everyday feel like an unfamiliar setting. Everyday I went home from highschool, to my house. Usually after I get dropped off by the school bus, I have a couple of hours alone-just my house and I. We have this living room with a big couch that I used to flop my tired,highschool body into everyday, and a TV that I would immediately turn on to watch Ellen Degeneres make jokes through the air or a repeat of “Keeping up with the Kardashians”. However, on this specific day, I cannot recall the events of the school day that I had, nor can I recall how my bus trip home was. From this day, I can only recall the few seconds following the moment I walked into the door of my house. The first thing I remember is hearing my name called.

“Maritza”. It was the voice of my little brother, yelling fom my name as he was slowly coming down the stars. Shocked, realizing that I was not the only one home, I answered back. His skin was pale, and his eyes were wide. He looked different that day.

“Something happened”, he said, “do you know what happened?”

“No, Donny, why are you home?”

“I don’t know if Mom wants me to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“I don’t think I can tell you.”

I remember being so confused. My brother, only being age fourteen was the bearer of knowledge that in some form I was restricted of. And it made me angry. In the next few minutes I hear another set of feet running down the stairs. This time, it was my older sister. Her facial expression was flat. I remember trying to read her to get a sense of what was going on, and I had a difficult time. But she is like that. She doesn’t often let emotions consume her, and when she does, she prevents others from seeing her become vulnerable.

“Donny,” Natasha said, taking a seat in the living room, walking past both my brother and I, who were still standing in the middle of the room staring at each other. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Should we tell her, “ Donny said, facing his whole body towards Natasha, as to exclude me. “Should we tell her what happened to Dad.”

And here, before my sister replied, my heart sunk.

The previous afternoon I followed the same schedule; flopping my body onto the couch, blaring the television loud, and waiting for my family members, one by one, to come home. It was my dad’s turn to come home, and I could tell he was in pain. But he is just like my sister in the sense that his emotions are kept distant, and he brushed it off. Maybe that’s where she gets it from. I remember him sitting in his usual chair next to me, and joined me watching TV. He told me that there was a burning sensation in his calf, and that he was curious as to why he suddenly got a burning sensation running through his leg. I remember brushing off his concern as well – just like he wanted me too. But now I wished I was a little more concerned about that mysterious pain that appeared in his right leg.

Standing there, I was staring at my sister, hoping that she would fix the worry that crossed my mind.

“Well”, I said blatantly, “Is dad dead.” My legs started shaking. It seemed like forever awaiting the response.

“No, Maritza,” Natasha said, still stoic, “but were going to the hospital to see him, get yourself ready”.