A few years ago--was it three?--Val’s father passed away. He had come down with some kind of fever. He laid in bed for weeks on end. Val’s mother had looked after him during that time. She would prepare him hot soup--though Val would describe them as lukewarm--and wipe the sweat from his brow. Val barely saw either of them during that time. Her mother rarely left Val’s father’s side, and she would always kick Val out of the room, saying Val would keep him from resting.

Val remembers the moment her father passed. She was standing by his bedside with her mother to her left. Val clasped her hands around her father’s. They were burning to the touch. Her father said something, though Val can not remember what. No matter how hard she tries, it eludes her. She just remembers his lips moving, slowly. He looked up to the ceiling and closed his eyes. His hand cooled down, and then became colder, and then colder, until it felt like ice. Val might have stood there, holding his hand, for hours. Her mother had her face planted into the blankets. They became damp with her tears. They rushed out of her eyes, a deluge of tears onto the fabric, and down to the floor, like a waterfall. Val continued to grasp his hand. It was colder than the arctic ocean. Colder than dry ice. Val’s fingers had gone numb. Her mother yanked her away from him. Val left the room, but her mother remained there, crying, for quite a while afterwards, her dress drenched in tears.