An ambulance slowly drives past in silence. I am standing by the four-foot-tall Christmas tree by the window, looking past the snowflake decals taped on the cold glass. The ambulance comes with no sirens and no flashing red lights. My mom stands next to me and we watch as it goes past the houses across the street, then drives backwards and backs up into the identified driveway. We watch it creep up the slope in front of the closed garage and stop. The scene is obscured by the bare trees and shrubs, we can’t see the driver open the door, a figure in white making its way to the front door. My mom’s eyes well up with tears and the knot in my chest tightens its hold.
“Let’s not watch,” I say, and withdraw from the window. We both know an ambulance taking its time comes to take away what is already gone.
There are red Santa hat covers on the backs of the four dining room tables, even though this is the first year there are only three of us. Silver, gold, red, and green garlands twirl around the staircase railing leading up to my room, where a silver strand is draped around the curtain valance. Another plastic tree is standing on the chair beside the closet, decorated with glittery lights, ornaments, ribbons, on top of a red skirt that makes it look like the tree has rooted itself with the chair and won’t get off.
On the wall above, there is a framed black and white photo of me from my childhood. A little girl is squinting in the light, seated on the back of a couch, her hand positioned uncomfortably behind her ear, her hair pulled into two tight ponytails secured with giant pom poms. She is pinned against the rug on the wall, her mouth twisted in a downward smile that looks like she is about to cry. Of all the photos, that is the one my mom chose to frame. It used to irritate me but has grown on me over the years. I’ve come to accept it as an accurate portrayal of my true self, so easily stirred.
My eyes are puffy from sleep and I keep washing my face, over and over. I lather my hands with the lavender soap from the new dispenser in the bathroom, featuring a cartoonish print of cats clad in blue yamakas and menorahs. My mom has been busy cooking while I write, the smell of fried fish rising like a thick cloud, filling all the rooms. Her phone keeps ringing and beeping while the skillet hisses and her footsteps thump around the kitchen, refrigerator door opening and closing, bags rustling, drawers slamming. She texts me a picture of Santa and the Snow Maiden by his side, calling me her Snegurochka.
The night my dad left, I watched the headlights of a hearse pull up our neighbors’ driveway in error and prayed it wouldn’t wake them. The truth is I haven’t felt like myself since he died. When I placed my bag on the floor in my old room on Friday night, I glanced at the holiday tree in disdain. I couldn’t bear the sparkling garlands and removed the silver string from the valance, and then unwound it from the top of the railing. My mom saw me and started to hack away at the garlands with scissors at the bottom of the stairs. I apologized and pleaded with her to stop. She put the scissors down and we hugged, leaving the rest of the holiday decor unharmed.
Google photos has an annoying feature that shows Recent Highlights or Spotlights, which chooses images you have taken throughout the year and regurgitates them in an Instagram-like story. It feels like salt on an open wound when photos of the last years of my dad’s life pop up. This time a year ago, I wore the same grey batwing sleeve turtleneck sweater.
On New Year’s Eve this year, we drove to Home Depot to shop for a new industrial vacuum cleaner – just because. A break from the routine. The sky was
An ambulance slowly drives past in silence. I am standing by the four-foot-tall Christmas tree by the window, looking past the snowflake decals taped on the cold glass. The ambulance comes with no sirens and no flashing red lights. My mom stands next to me and we watch as it goes past the houses across the street, then drives backwards and backs up into the identified driveway. We watch it creep up the slope in front of the closed garage and stop. The scene is obscured by the bare trees and shrubs, we can’t see the driver open the door, a figure in white making its way to the front door. My mom’s eyes well up with tears and the knot in my chest tightens its hold.
“Let’s not watch,” I say, and withdraw from the window. We both know an ambulance taking its time comes to take away what is already gone.
There are red Santa hat covers on the backs of the four dining room tables, even though this is the first year there are only three of us. Silver, gold, red, and green garlands twirl around the staircase railing leading up to my room, where a silver strand is draped around the curtain valance. Another plastic tree is standing on the chair beside the closet, decorated with glittery lights, ornaments, ribbons, on top of a red skirt that makes it look like the tree has rooted itself with the chair and won’t get off.
On the wall above, there is a framed black and white photo of me from my childhood. A little girl is squinting in the light, seated on the back of a couch, her hand positioned uncomfortably behind her ear, her hair pulled into two tight ponytails secured with giant pom poms. She is pinned against the rug on the wall, her mouth twisted in a downward smile that looks like she is about to cry. Of all the photos, that is the one my mom chose to frame. It used to irritate me but has grown on me over the years. I’ve come to accept it as an accurate portrayal of my true self, so easily stirred.
My eyes are puffy from sleep and I keep washing my face, over and over. I lather my hands with the lavender soap from the new dispenser in the bathroom, featuring a cartoonish print of cats clad in blue yamakas and menorahs. My mom has been busy cooking while I write, the smell of fried fish rising like a thick cloud, filling all the rooms. Her phone keeps ringing and beeping while the skillet hisses and her footsteps thump around the kitchen, refrigerator door opening and closing, bags rustling, drawers slamming. She texts me a picture of Santa and the Snow Maiden by his side, calling me her Snegurochka.
The night my dad left, I watched the headlights of a hearse pull up our neighbors’ driveway in error and prayed it wouldn’t wake them. The truth is I haven’t felt like myself since he died. When I placed my bag on the floor in my old room on Friday night, I glanced at the holiday tree in disdain. I couldn’t bear the sparkling garlands and removed the silver string from the valance, and then unwound it from the top of the railing. My mom saw me and started to hack away at the garlands with scissors at the bottom of the stairs. I apologized and pleaded with her to stop. She put the scissors down and we hugged, leaving the rest of the holiday decor unharmed.
Google photos has an annoying feature that shows Recent Highlights or Spotlights, which chooses images you have taken throughout the year and regurgitates them in an Instagram-like story. It feels like salt on an open wound when photos of the last years of my dad’s life pop up. This time a year ago, I wore the same grey batwing sleeve turtleneck sweater.
On New Year’s Eve this year, we drove to Home Depot to shop for a new industrial vacuum cleaner – just because. A break from the routine. The sky was a pale sheet of paper. I thought to myself, loss is a quiet hurt shared in the dark.
a pale sheet of paper. I thought to myself, loss is a quiet hurt shared in the dark.
Olga Katsovskiy, MHA, lives in Boston and works in a non-profit healthcare organization. In addition, she is a Writing Instructor at the Cambridge Center for Adult Education. Her prose was published in Barzakh Magazine and Nixes Mate Review. She enjoys nonfiction and is devoted to daily journaling, obscure books, and good coffee. Find more of her writing at theweightofaletter.com
