The Devil Wears Haviannas

Inspired by the conversation about the expensive slippers

I placed the pair of slippers in her room. That was the last significant thing I’ve done.

Of course, I’m not afraid of death. I’m just afraid of the feeling before I die. I know my time is near. Nevertheless, I believe that this simple struggle has a reason. Perhaps, the one I am yet to discover.

What was I thinking when an officemate rushed me to this eerie place called hospital? Yeah, I recalled, Catherine. My only child, a prodigal daughter named Catherine. Where is she now? I haven’t heard of her voice for such a long time. I’m longing for her stubborn screams and apathetic looks, suggesting that I’m equal to the stranger she met at the university canteen. The thought of her, soothes my soul amidst this dire moment of my life.

Thoughts, my only consolation on this floppy condition. This is the only thing I’m capable of executing- think. My body, my weak body can’t comprehend my brain’s command. Neither can my frail eyelids enable me to see the ceiling of the edifice that houses my mortality. My force is gone, in just a click. I wish to move my hands, speak the things I want to be heeded. I have no idea, not the slightest one, on where to get my strength. I can’t get it from my thoughts. For thoughts are mere creation, created to entertain, and never a cause of vigor. But, what else can I do if thinking is the only thing I’m capable of doing?

The waves of thoughts keep rushing on the seashore of my mind. Somehow, this has given me an opportunity to have a comprehensive view of my life. When I was a teen, I used to see the sunset and write poems related to it. I used to create song, live according to my parents’ will. What else? In the mid-twenties, I met Anna, the only woman I loved so deeply. On the other hand, she left, because of the sole reason, my immaturity. But then, I’m thankful when she has given me the only blessing I treasured – Catherine. Catherine, my dearest Catherine, Papa needs your voice Cath, your mere presence.

Oh Catherine, how will you survive if I’ll be gone completely? Who will comfort you when one of the bugging boys hurt you, when one of your friends turned you down? Who will go shop with you when you wish to buy peculiar clothes? And who, in your moments of solitude, will be your company? And by the way, I bought you the pair of Havs you aimed to buy last Saturday. Seen it in your room?

I’ve never been a full-time father Cath, and I wish I can still be. I wish to see you as a full-grown woman. I want to peek of how you will become as you were kneaded by my values. I hope to hug you as tight as I had never done before. I hope against hope, to see your face.

“Well, Ms. Brown, your Dad has been clinically dead for two days. Only the ventilator keeps him alive.”

“If that’s the case Doc, it would be better if we’ll let him rest.”

That was Catherine’s voice. I’m resting dear. You see, I’m so damned relaxed with my unresponsive body and I’m breathing. Why do you still want me to rest?

From that moment, I learned that I can cry too though I’m terribly frail. I can cry and think. And so, what I fear most will come about soon – the feeling before I die.

Catherine, won’t you hug Papa before he stops thinking of you? My, you’re still the same little stubborn girl, Papa calls his Little Guardian Devil.

 

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

You create a very sad situation. I like the thoughts of the father. Always a hard decision to turn off the life support. I like the way you closed out the story. Thank you for sharing the excellent story.
Coyote