The Date of Death Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The wind blew so hard it seemed suffocating. It pulled me left, right, and up, but not down. If the wind could lift me off the ground and into the clouds, it would. Another burst lifted my hair off my shoulders and into the air. I quickly pulled my hair back and tried to walk without tripping. I stumbled through the cemetery. I wasn’t lost. I had memorized the route when I was nine. I suppose that should be a big feat since his grave was hidden. Well, not hidden, but hard to find. It was under a weeping willow tree on a hill near the back of the cemetery. When you reached the hill, you couldn’t help but stare at the willow tree. It had long branches and was usually calm, but with today’s winds, everything was crazy. The willow tree with its swinging, whipping branches looked slightly dangerous, but I approached it anyway. I pushed away some of the branches and walked under the willow. It was calm and quiet, completely opposite from the outside. I loved it under this tree because it was so different from the outside world. It always looked different every time I was under here, which was quite often. I never saw anyone else under here, another reason why I liked it so much. I tried multiple times to draw the willow tree, but I could never get it to look just right. One just had to see it with their own eyes. The tree had an amazing trunk. It was knotted and twisted and had the most beautiful designs grown into it. I didn’t even attempt to draw it. On the trunk, there was a small plaque. I memorized it a long time ago, but I still went up and read it.

“And in the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.”-Arthur Hamilton

I leaned against the trunk and slowly slid to the ground. Another thing I loved about this tree was that it was where my dad rested. I loved my dad. I rested my head against the hardwood and foolishly let my mind wander to the day my father had died.

“Daddy! Daddy! Today’s the day! The numbers match the date so something big is going to happen, I know it!” I squealed to my dad. This was incredibly stupid, considering my father was driving on a rather slippery road in a storm. I continued to tell my father about how wonderful and big that day was going to be. “It hasn’t happened yet, Daddy, of course, because all I did today was eat oatmeal, but now we’re going to the store to buy presents!” My father just nodded and smiled because he truly didn’t understand a word I said. However, I was excited and had been waiting for this day for two years. “Daddy! Do you know what’s going to happen? Or is it a surprise? Should I know what’s going to happen?”

My excitement was interrupted by screams. On that day, the happy little girl really learned what the numbers meant.

I woke from my memories with water hitting my palm. Was it raining? No, the water tasted like salt. That was what I got for remembering things I tried hard to forget. I needed something to keep my mind off these painful memories. I opened my bag and took out my sketchbook and pencil. Leaning against the tree, the wind made a surprisingly soothing sound. I sketched my father. He had the same thin face and slightly pointed nose as I did. I had my mom’s dark blonde hair, but mine was long. My dad had dark brown eyes, like mine, but I had freckles, which neither of them had.

It was easy to sketch my dad; I had done it many times before. When it came to facial expressions, though, I was blank. I flipped through the other pages of my sketchbook and studied all my other drawings. I’d drawn my mom, relatives, and people I saw walking down the street. Their bodies were drawn perfectly, but their faces were missing. When it came to someone’s, emotions, I didn’t know if I should make them scared, angry, sad or happy. What expression should these people show? Should I draw their features so they looked as if they were dying because that was what I always saw in my mind? I saw contorted faces of my mom and random people walking down the street, their eyes wide and mouths agape, as they saw an inevitable death heading their way. My father’s face, as the truck...

I slammed my pencil into the ground, trying to stop my memories. I unearthed my pencil from the grass and went back to my father’s picture. I decided to make him happy; it was his birthday after all. I let myself be pulled into the drawing as I sketched and shaded. It had been so long, I wondered how I could remember his face. I didn’t notice the time or weather change because I was so absorbed with my sketch. I stopped when I felt water coming from the sky. The weeping willow might be able to keep out the wind, but not the rain. I glanced at my drawing and saw my father staring back at me. I turned it around and wrote, To Dad. Happy Birthday. I folded it and leaned it against the trunk where I knew it wasn’t going to get wet. I searched around the trunk until I found a small stone and placed it on top of the drawing so the wind wouldn’t blow it away. When I was done, the rain came down in a drizzle. I pulled up my hood, grabbed my bag, and ran out from the safety of the weeping willow tree.