Prologue

John just couldn’t put on a smile today. But who could blame him. A funeral is no place to be happy, especially when you’re the husband or son. There she lay, her face at peace; an expression completely different to mine. It all felt so unreal, like a dream, or more of a nightmare. And as the service ended, people began to clear out, except for John and I. We couldn’t move; our feet were entangled by the roots of our grief. After we paid our final respects to her, and she was whisked away by the staff, we were released from our trance, and grimly walked to the civic; one hand holding the keys; the other holding the boy’s.

As we rode home in the old, scratched car, I noticed tears rolling down John’s face. A sniffle came out, followed by a few moans. I was amazed that a mere three-year old boy understood the situation so well. And as the clock neared seven, his eyes began to droop, as if his eyelids became too heavy for him to hold up.

That night, I held him securely beside me on my double king size bed, which felt half empty that evening. But before the night turned to day, he awoke, and recurred to his wailing state. His feet began to shuffle, as if he were learning to walk on air. And I, not sure what to do, brought him to the kitchen, where I pulled out a bottle of breast milk, his last gift from his mother.

Afterwards, he resumed to his deep sleep, tucked into the boundaries of my arms. But I remained unable to sleep. Not insomnia or restlessness, but I couldn’t stop thinking about her: from the day I met her to this very night, where all she left me with was a child. And at that, my eyes closed, my fist unclenched itself, and I too, feel asleep with my dear son, all that was left of my everlong companion.