The sunlight seeps through the blinds, but I am awoken to the sound of chatter and laughter. The smell of bacon leaks through my door. I get up. I stumble to the kitchen, pet the dog, and walk in, for a moment the atmosphere is heavy with disease, a sickness. I look up and suddenly it’s overtaken by the smile of my dad. He says ‘Set the table!’, I set the table. We all sit, we eat, we talk, we laugh, all while the radio plays in the background. The dog wants to play, I play with him. Sunday morning was perfect.
Next week, Sunday. I wake up, stumble into the hallway, pet the dog, say ‘good morning papa!’, I go to the kitchen, the air still heavy. I look up, I see my mum, the smell of baked bread covers the apartment. She says ‘Set the table.’, I set the table. We all sit, we eat, and we talk, as the radio plays in the background. The dog wants to play, I play with him. Sunday morning was nice.
The next Sunday after. I wake up, it’s silent. I stumble to the hallway, pet the dog, say ‘good morning papa!’. I’m now in the kitchen. Mama is making porridge. She hands me a bowl. I go the master bedroom. I hand the bowl to papa, he asks ‘Can I have my pills please?’, I fetch it and hand it to him. I go back to the kitchen, take my bowl, go to my room. I sit, I eat, and I don’t play with the dog. Sunday morning was fine.
Another Sunday arrives. I wake up, stumble into the hallway, pet the dog, go to the master bedroom, say ‘good morning mama and papa!’, I get a few kisses, but something is wrong. I leave. I’m in the kitchen, I make a sandwich, I go to my room. I sit and don’t play with the dog. Sunday morning was alright.
It’s Sunday. I wake up, stumble into the hallway, pet the dog, kiss my mum good morning, say ‘good morning papa!’, I get a mumble back, I hug him. I go to the kitchen, make a sandwich, go to my room and I don’t play with the dog. Sunday mornings are getting worse.
It’s 6:00 am on a Thursday morning. I wake up, stumble to the hallway, pet the dog, say ‘good morning mama and papa!’, mama responds. I get ready for school. I leave. I had fun. I go home, call mama as I go up, she says ‘don’t be shocked.’, I enter, I’m scared. The room reeks of cancer. Papa is bubbling, liquid pours out, nose and mouth. I cry. I go to my room, put my bag down, change my clothes. I walk back to the master bedroom, sit on the bed, hold papa’s hand. One hour passes, I go eat in the living room. It’s 5:30 pm, I hear my mother’s wail, I run to the bedroom. He’s yellow, unresponsive, not breathing. I’m crying, I’m holding his hand, I’m squeezing. He’s gone. I hate Thursdays.
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