Six Feet UnderA Story by Mylifeinheartbeats A Fictional one-take about a girl who's father dies. Six feet under. My father was a great man. He built masterpieces with his bare hands. He took one look at the works of Van Gogh and recreated them in his mind. He cried rivers that children could play in when they got too hot. He sang music that made cloudy skies clear and grumpy old men smile. On days when it rained, he would stand up, walk outside, and tell jokes to the clouds until they stopped weeping. It's true that on some nights, my father could be captured on camera, trying to save the world. It's true that he never did succeed. He used to say that the only way the world could be saved was if everyone came together and made peace. He would then laugh his belly-chuckle and say that we'd all be buried before that happened. I never really understood. My father was an artist. He didn't paint or draw or construct anything. All he did was take his words and make people everywhere laugh and cry and sing and dance. My father used to say that everyone could sing. I tried my hardest, I did, but I was never able to use my voice. He took me to the old hay loft in the cow barn one day and told me that even if I couldn't speak, he could still hear every word. He said my heart was plain on my sleeve the way my nose was on my face, plain as day. My father was bald. He told me that he had developed a thing called Cancer, and they took his hair away when they fixed him. My father liked to say that his Cancer was just his body growing a place for all of his thoughts to go. I asked daddy one day a question that made him sadly smile. I said: "Daddy, if Cancer gives you places to put your thoughts, why did you get rid of it?" He looked me right in the eyes and said: "Honey, sometimes I think I think too much anyway." He left it at that. My father was a strong man. He had strong legs and strong arms, and even though he had a jolly big belly, I swear, if you punched it, your hand would bruise just like that. There were stories all around town how my daddy had helped build that bridge right outside of town. The crazy part was, they said he never once picked up a power tool or used the wagons. He just built it, with his hands, the way he said they used to in the old days. My father said he couldn't fly, but when I went to sleep at night, I heard the whooshing of wings as he left the house to help people out. My father was a saint. Everyone loved him. His appearance every week in the town square was something everyone looked forward to. He would juggle five oranges at a time and give nickles and quarters to the children so they could buy themselves some rock candy. My father once traveled eighteen miles on foot in the pouring rain to help out old Widow Danville when she was ailing with the pox. My father was a fantastic cook. He would make the most delicious meat pies. I swear, he could cook up something out of nothing, and every time he did, he would tell us the story of Stone Soup, sayin' that there's always something if everyone lends a hand. Come to think of it, the only thing my father wasn't good at was living. My father died when he was only forty-seven. In the last few months he would tell me I had to take care of the farm, take care of the other kids. He said he was proud of me, and he knew I loved him, even if I couldn't say it. I looked at him and tried to speak, but still words didn't come out. My father was good at wiping tears away. He would take him thumb and gently put it under my eyes and brush them away like they was bad news. My father was great man. In the last few days he had on earth, he laid in bed, but always got up to look around the farm and spend some time with me. I wrote a poem, asking him where he was gonna go when he died, but my hand-writing was terrible, and I'm no good at rhyming. He smiled and hung the paper on his wall and said to me: "Hun, I don't know whether I'll go up or down. I don't know if I'm left or right, and I sure don't know what happens when I die, but I do know if there is a place for me, it's where I'll meet you." My father had to brush many tears from my eyes that day. My father died peacefully. He called me into the room and said: "Baby, it's time for me to be getting on now. I love you, and don't you ever forget it." My father looked so calm when he closed his eyes and sighed. He said: "There are my last breaths, my last words, my last moments. I want you to know I'm spending them with you because even though you wasn't the boy I wanted, you was good enough for me." My father was good at dying. It was like he had practiced for hours, just waiting to get it right. He opened his eyes one last time, and I mouthed the words 'I love you'. I think he understood. My father died smiling. At the funeral, I wrote a letter to him, but I couldn't read it. My sister, Annie, got up, brave little thing that she was at only seven years old, and read with all the dignity she could. She smiled sadly at the audience and said: "I don't rightly know where daddy is, but I know I won't see him for a long time. My sister wrote this letter here, and I'm gonna read it as good as I can." Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them, beginning the speech... "My father was a great man..." © 2012 MylifeinheartbeatsAuthor's Note
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MylifeinheartbeatsWIAboutI'm Telea. I am a great many things, but I like to focus on writing, singing, and making stupid Youtube videos. I am an aspiring artist, whatever that means, and I am currently in the process of finis.. more..Writing
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