Young Writers Society

This is a moment in my life put it in slow motion.  

     As my mother drove our car through the woods to the park, so many situations ran through my head. What would he say, what would he do, what should I say, what should I do? I frantically tried to figure out something for me to say. But all of that washed away when I saw him pull up next to our car. 

     He got out, and I couldn’t even look in his direction I was so anxious. I pushed open the door and when I looked up, he was standing only a few feet away. I looked at his face, which was irritatingly red from his severe rosacea that would almost certainly be passed down to me. He smiled a little, an obviously forced gesture because he was clearly scared too. What did he think I was going to say to him? Where had he been all my life? Why had he left my mom to care for me on her own? Why was he such a jerk? 

     I took a slow, cautious step forward, my body not wanting to process the situation in front of me. My foot hit the pavement, and as my weight shifted I felt the familiar gravel that had so often been under my feet as a child. This was the park I had always visited ever since I could remember. We would go biking, hiking, fishing, or just go play on the playground. It was a familiar place that I had chosen, because I didn’t want to feel uncomfortable in that aspect. But in every other aspect, it was excruciatingly uncomfortable. As I took that step, I took a deep breath, breathing in all of the familiar scents of pine trees, damp wood and mulch, and freshly cut grass that surrounded the parking lot. I lifted my foot again, and this time at a quicker speed, knowing that the initial shock had passed and now I had to make a move. I had to do something. I’m not one to express my actual opinion about someone when they are standing right in front of me, because I’m too afraid that they will be hurt by it and that they will hate me. Even in small situations like group projects at school, and deciding where to go for dinner with my friends. 

     So, as you would expect, my people-pleasing self did exactly what I didn’t want to do; hug him. I hugged him quickly, which was a motion that I rarely did, even to my family and friends. I breathed in the unfamiliar scent of his cologne, a scent that wouldn’t be smelled again, because that was the last time I wanted to see him. I let go, my fingers uncurling from the fists that I had involuntarily formed. Anger, anxiety, and complete fear of the moments to follow filled my mind. His shirt, a well ironed white polo, felt unpleasantly soft, and a faint scent of fabric softener soon followed. As I let go of him, I looked down at the ground, ashamed of my previous action. As I let go of him, I let go of him in my heart. The guilt that had welled up inside me all those years was washed away with my tears as I drove back home.