“Come kiss your daddy goodnight,” Mom says, ushering me into their bedroom, a single lamp guides me to my father lying in bed.
His position looks like Great Aunt Linda in her casket—I didn’t want to look at her body because I wasn’t looking at a person I knew. Here, the space heater runs even with the early August heat outside. A dampness hangs over the room that makes me feel yucky. Part of me wants to run from the room like how people did at Great Aunt Linda’s funeral. The mourners’ suppressed emotions erupted in violent sobs and died in the hallway as they scurried away from the casket. I had felt embarrassed for the people in the funeral home and looked down at my light up Sketchers and smiled at the bright colors that flashed on my toes.
Standing beside my father, I stare at my socked feet. I don’t move to kiss the strange man in bed. What I don’t know in this moment is he fell off a bridge while looking down at a shallow creek and hitchhiked home. The truck driver didn’t see his cracked open head covered by his cap.
All I know is saying goodnight feels wrong, so I say I love you.
Allison Finn is an undergraduate at the University of the Cumberlands majoring in English Literature and Secondary Education. She is set to graduate Spring 2028 and plans to pursue a graduate program in creative writing. She is also a member of the women’s bowling team, Alpha Lambda Delta, Sigma Tau Delta, and Kappa Delta.
Pensworth 