Father and Son
by Howard Lo

Christopher died in the spring.  We dressed him in his bright red jumper, nestled between his favorite toys in the coffin.  His mother cried and cried when we left the funeral parlor.  The tears were bad form, I was told.  Chinese custom dictates a child is buried in silence.  I didn’t cry.

I leave Christopher’s toys scattered in the living room.  It reminds me of when he was around.  The happy shrieks and exuberance he displayed.  Every day an adventure for all of us.  “What’s this a drawing of?”  “A bus!  For you daddy!”  Oh, my dear sweet boy.

Christopher’s mother left a week after his death.  The sounds drove her away.  She said it wasn’t right.  An abomination.

I lay in bed each night, waiting.  I watch the clock tick the hours by.  I strain my ears.

Through my bedroom door I hear giggling in the living room.  The burbles and squeaks of a happy toddler.  Is it the train set he likes?  The police car?  I smile. 

The damp smell of soil ground into shoes, caked mud, and dirty fingernails creeps into my room.

Our happiest times were at night.  Christopher would run into our room, climb on the bed, and wrap his arms around me, refusing to sleep until I told him a story.  We came up with so many tales together, Christopher always wanting to insert jet planes and horsemen into them.  “Is this when the kig-hites fly?  Will they be okay, daddy?”  “Yes little man, the knights will fly the jet planes to the stars.”  “No, daddy, the jet planes are not space ships!”

The living room grows quiet again.

I miss him so much.  I remember taking him to the zoo, watching him point at the animals and wriggle to get out of his stroller.  He would insist that he didn’t need to wear a hat, and I’d laugh at the small sunburn on his forehead by the end of the day.  They always say that kids need to find their own way, learn their own lessons.  I believed that.

The sound of something wet creeps outside, shuffling towards my bedroom door.  Small feet struggling to stand.  Behind the closed door, I can picture him.  My sweet boy, taking his first steps, half-crawling, pulling himself up by the table, finally walking.  I hear the squish of his feet, the sound of liquids oozing out of the wounds with every step.

Christopher has come back every night since the funeral.

I close my eyes and imagine him in his red jumper.  He loved it so much.  I would wash it at least three times a week; he was always staining it with something.

My boy is coming to say good night to me.  I lay with my eyes closed and wait.

“Why didn’t you cry for me, daddy?”

My dear sweet boy!  I wanted to cry, you know daddy wanted to cry… I wanted to hold you and keep you with me forever.  I didn’t want you to go.

“Why didn’t you cry for me, daddy?”

I do every day, every morning, always.  I stare out the window and think about how small you looked, how small you were, how crumpled and broken your body felt.  And my heart tears and weeps.  I wanted to cry at the end, I wanted to cry when we buried you, but I couldn’t.

The shuffling stops.  I hear the sound of wet fingers working their way up the door.   Grasping the doorknob but slipping off.  Skin worn smooth by rain and dirt, trying to find a grip.

The door opens and I keep my eyes closed.  There is a muffled thud and something soft but heavy hits the ground and starts crawling towards the bed.  The smell of flies and stagnant water is overpowering.

He tugs my blanket.  I feel it sliding off of me in small jerky movements.  My sheets rustle, and the end of the bed sinks lower as he pulls himself up.  The bed grows damp, my feet cold.

“I miss you, daddy.”

I open my eyes.  Christopher is snaking his way towards me.  What’s left of his hair is matted to his forehead.  One eye is viscous, and I think of a runny yolk sliding off a plate.  Worms crawl through his hair and maggots make their way out of his mouth.  His skin is a waxy green against his bright red jumper.

He crawls onto my chest.  I can smell the rot from his inside.  His hands reach towards my face, he’s crying.

“Why didn’t you cry for me, daddy?”

Christopher’s arms wrap around my neck for an embrace.  His skin is cold and slimy.  The feel of seaweed as it twines around your body.

I’ve missed you so much.

He moves his head closer to me.  His eye drips white liquid.

Daddy still loves you, Christopher.

His body shakes against mine as he struggles to hold tighter.  Black grime oozes from his elbows as they pop under the pressure.

“I want to go to sleep now, Daddy.”

Oh my beautiful baby boy!  Lay down, bury your head on my shoulder and close your eyes.  Daddy is here and misses you so much.

I struggle to find air.  The room is spinning.  Christopher’s hands are on my neck, squeezing tighter and tighter.  The smell chokes me, reaching down my throat and filling every pore with black sludge.

“Why didn’t you cry for me, daddy?”

I’m so sorry, Christopher.  I’m so sorry.

My eyes are closing; I look at my beautiful boy, at his wounds and sores, at the gaps in his teeth that will never be filled, his bloated arms, and tufts of hair… and the last thing I see before my eyes close is his bright, bright red jumper.  So beautifully red.