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The Whistle

Writer's picture: Alma EscobarAlma Escobar

Updated: Mar 25, 2024

I strolled down the garden and noticed the three stairs. To avoid tripping, I gazed down. As my sight lifted, the yellow façade of the house met my eyes. I always deemed yellow to be an overwhelming color for an entire house, but try telling that to my parents. I raised my gaze once more and beheld the massive door, a door that had been a constant in my upbringing. This door, about three meters wide, divided into three parts, with the middle section being the actual door, each part adorned with a mirror. Memories flooded through that mirror at that moment.

 

I spent two periods of my life in this house, from ages 4 to 7 and then from 11 to 15. After high school, I would only return on weekends. Memories of my childhood, playing with my dog "Osa" (she-bear), unfolded before my eyes. I met her at the age of 5, and she departed when I was 22. Amid these recollections, I started descending the stairs, with the garden unfolding behind me.

 

Then, I heard my cousin, she is a year older than me, we used to play and spent time together, calling me by my nickname, "güera! güera!" ("güera," a nickname given by some for my pale skin tone when arriving in our town). I sensed she was inside the house, but she remained unseen. Suddenly, a whistle echoed, a happy and melodious tune. I felt shaken and uncertain. The whistle, a sound emanating from behind, was my dad. Walking toward me, I was so surprised that I fell to my knees, uncontrollably weeping. Though my knees stung, but the tears weren't for the pain. I sensed him, and the whistle continued. Through the mirrors, I glimpsed echoes of him. He wore his favorite khaki knee shorts, a striped polo in white, yellow, and blue, and his cap. I only sensed him because I didn't see him.

 

Then, I woke up, tears streaming down my face. It was a bewildering moment. My face was all wet, and I felt disoriented. As the confusion faded, I thought, "What is this? Was that a dream? What is real? Am I truly awake?" Unfortunately, I was. I hadn't felt this deep pain in my chest in a while. It was August 2021, 13 months since my dad's passing, and dreaming of him wasn't what I expected. I always anticipated being there, holding his hand in his final moments. This reality, being away even after 13 months, wasn't what I expected. But I suppose life and death are anything but expected.



I've been unable to return home due to force majeure circumstances (hello 2020!), but in a couple of days, I'm heading to Mexico. The fear lingers because this will become real. I'll see my parents' house for the first time without my father. He won't be there to pick me up at the airport, share silly jokes on the way back, or engage in late-night conversations about the trip. We won't have breakfast together the next day. This trip back home will make this sensation in my chest and stomach real.

 

Upon arrival, I'll witness the changes of time and progress in my town. I'll enter the house, pass the garden, descend the stairs, face the door, and know I must enter my home. It will be the first time I'll see and feel home without him, and it is so scary, unthinkable, unimaginable and shattering. There will be no whistle. His chair at the table will be empty, his sofa in the living room, and his bedroom may be tidy but empty.

 

Will I be able to cry? Should I even cry? I don't want my mom to feel sad again, but I know I cannot cure her sadness as no one can cure mine. I feel I am behind everyone else. I am one year late to this grief. Grieving remotely has not been very effective; distance and time have colluded in processing my loss, in accepting my loss. The invisibility of my father passing has made it impossible to believe. I am one year later to this grief, and I feel this will be like starting everything all over again. The numbness, the sadness, the hopeless, the lifelessness and nonsense. Or maybe, and just maybe, I will finally be able to get started with it.


Note: The original piece was written in August 2021 and edited in November 2023.


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