Near blind and breathless, my father intently watched tangerine play against violets in his old narra chair on the porch.
He
pressed his palm against mine – a first in five years – pale yellow
over blush. His tremor-ridden fingers unfurled to whisk my daughter’s
hair; its reedlike veins glistening in the dusk sun.
He
pressed his palm against mine – a first in five years – pale yellow
over blush. His tremor-ridden fingers unfurled to whisk my daughter’s
hair; its reedlike veins glistening in the dusk sun.
“No
tears. We’re strong, like narra.”
tears. We’re strong, like narra.”
Then,
stupor.
stupor.
A
fortnight ago, as I packed in the night, my husband said,
“You are nothing but a piece of my rib. It’s a man’s world.”
fortnight ago, as I packed in the night, my husband said,
“You are nothing but a piece of my rib. It’s a man’s world.”
He’s
wrong.
I am my father’s daughter.
wrong.
I am my father’s daughter.
They
called him Narra Man.
called him Narra Man.
NOTE: This is a fiction story I wrote over a year ago and submitted to Reader’s Digest 100-word story 2013 contest. This was penned when I learned about my stepdad’s terminal illness, making it sort of fiction that’s inspired by non-fictitious events.
