Pew and Coffin
A fictional short story
I’m under the incubator and you’re in a chair.
I came into this world, a blue cherub, screaming for my mother’s milk and a reprieve from the light. You cut my cord. They rush me away. You call me Avery, telling friends and family it’s a namesake after your third favourite beer, not the birdcage.
I climb the ladder, swing my body up and over the final rung. I follow you to the antennae because I follow you everywhere. I’m seven. Helping you on the roof and giving mum mini heart attacks brings us both joy.
I don’t have time to put on a seatbelt properly. I’m scared, angry, and ashamed. You look it too. You follow the car for as long as you can. We turn the corner. Then you’re gone.
Between this moment and the next time we meet, it’s years.
I’m with my friends in the food court. One, a girl I’d known since three, our old neighbour, the one called Bindi. We link arms. You recognise her before you recognise me. It’s been so long. We exchange pleasantries, as best a teenager can with an estranged father.
But I see it in your eyes, you’re sad. The same reasons I’m sad.
We sit around the fire. You smoke and drink straight whiskey. I sip on water and stifle my irritated cough. It’s music, politics, conspiracies, aliens, and spies on the agenda tonight.
I ask, what went wrong. You say, everything.
We’re at the shops. So different to how I remember them. Bigger. Busier. Filled with an abundance of busy faces and bodies. Everyone’s rushing to be somewhere.
I’m one of them.
You’re in a wandering mood and I need you to focus. I turn to nag. You wear a half smile, hand outstretched, body slumped.
Not a smile. A grimace.
A final plea for forgiveness, no strength left to stay alive. You crumple to the floor, the busy faces and bodies disperse away. I scream for help but you’re already gone.
Final goodbyes. Our life together flashing before my eyes.
I’m in the pew and you’re in the coffin.
