“Band-aid”
A day before you passed, I cut my right thumb on our neighbor’s door.
I was endearly interacting with a puppy named Bubbles at the time. I didn’t notice it at first, but then I realized I had gotten a cut on my right thumb. After playing with Bubbles, I went straight home and told you about it.
You told me to be careful and to look after myself. Then you gave me a band-aid—one, I immediately put on and kept on my thumb for the rest of the day.
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That day, I slept with you—not the whole day, but I still slept beside you. Then I woke up and went upstairs to sleep next to Mother. The next day, my Mother gave you your pills and made you a cup of coffee in a small white ceramic cup. At 8 a.m., she screamed all of our names, and we all rushed downstairs. She was panicking, sobbing. She told us to do whatever it takes just to make you gain consciousness.
I tried.
As an eight-year-old little girl who was aware of what was happening, but unaware of the consequences of losing her own father, I tried my best. And Sometimes, I blame myself for not trying harder. But at the same time, I can’t — my eight-year-old self does not deserve that kind of burden.
So instead, I just wish I could give my eight-year-old self a hug, because no one in my family taught me how strange grief really is.
It’s also why I wish the cut on my thumb didn’t heal. I wish I had picked at it, just so it would leave a scar—something that could remind me of the last day I had with you.
