Recorded by the author at The Mark Twain House & Museum, July 22, 2025
The light of the kitchen slips through the door. The small boy peeks his head out to scan the area. He sees that his mother’s door is closed shut and his brother is peeking open, just wide enough to let a small breeze in and out. He sneaks down the stairs, ensuring to never step on the third step because that is the one that always creaks and cracks. The boy moves past the living room and closes to the kitchen door. Inside, he hears the radio, an old radio like one that was used in the 50s. It played a sweet, sad melody, and a young man sang a tune that the boy recognizes but can’t remember.
The boy pushes the door open slightly to get a glimpse of who’s there. At the head of the dining table, there’s a man, clutching a golden urn. It’s his father. He sits in the kitchen alone, the radio playing to cover up the sound of his tears. The boy recognizes the urn as the one they were handed at the funeral a few days ago. His father sits clutching his father, the boy’s grandad. The boy sat on the ground, a tear dripping down his face as well. This was the first time he had seen his father cry. Even at the funeral, his father was sullen, but did not let a single tear dampen his stone cold expression.
The boy wakes up. No longer a boy. But now a man. He glances over to his wife sleeping next to him. He shifts through the house past his daughter’s door. He peeks in the door to see her asleep with a stuffed teddy bear. He passes his dog and gives him a pet on his head. The man goes to the bookshelf and picks up a back jar, an urn.
He walks down to the couch and puts the TV on at a low volume so as not to wake his daughter. He lights a cigarette and lets the smoke fill the room. He lets his built up tears pour out of his face, dripping on his father’s urn. Holding it close, hugging it, knowing he will never feel his father’s embrace again. He puts out his cigarette and stores the urn back away. And at the top of the stairs, he sees a girl. His daughter, clutching her stuffed bear, a tear dripping down her face, as she watches generational grief.