bluebirds
My father passed away on February third, just two days before his sixtieth birthday. I was working late in the office, my eyes wearing away at the glowing computer screen, when I saw the notification pop up on my phone, blunt and untimely. The text from my mother was short and to the point: “Dad’s passed.”
As I opened up my mother’s message, lingering on the period at the end which marked the event with unsettling finality, it hit me that all this time I had expected his passing to be a suicide.
I texted her back: “Should I fly home tomorrow?”
“If you want.”
“Ok.”
The phone screen dimmed, then went dark. I continued to stare at it, looking blankly at my own reflection contained within the screen. I suppose it had been about time.