No answer, that’s strange, normally I received a chirpy ‘hello’, or when in foul moods, he gave me at the very least a grunt. But yet there was silence. Deafening silence…

“Dad?” I yelled his name, as fear slowly overcame me. I walked up the creaking stairs, they squelched under my weight. The top of the stairs seemed too far away, my father’s room even further. The bleak carpet seeming to grin, as I trudged on the carpets soft face.

“Dad?” I was whispering, afraid that again there would be no response. I waited, again silence.

I was in front of his room and could only wish that he was there sleeping. The door is closed and I quietly twisted the knob, I waited for any signs of life, there was none. No heavy breathing, no scraping of feet again the floor, no shuffling in his bed. I peered into his room and he isn’t there, his bed is neat, untouched it seems and his shoes tucked under his bed. His room seemed unwelcoming as if wanting to be rid of my presence. No one was there, my father was gone. Silence.

I heard a light weeping sound coming from outside; I peered out the open window and looked down at my Mother’s garden. My father was there, head in his hands, the weeping seemingly coming from his mouth. I raced out of his room, skipping stairs, and I burst through the kitchen door into the garden and sprinted to my father, he sat there, crying.

“Dad,” I queried “what’s wrong?”

Silence. My father raised his dreary head, he is drenched with tears, which had stained his clothes and his solemn face.

“She’s gone” His face only showed pain, and I grasped my father and don’t want to let go. We embraced for hours it seemed. The wind swaying my mother’s garden, shifting the soil, as light became dark, we held each other. Those two words changed my life, they changed me. I heard a distant dripping coming from inside the house and went inside, I didn’t want to leave my father, but I hoped this dripping would distract my mind for a few minutes. I looked at the taps and they were still, I checked the bathroom, again no movement. I assumed my mind was playing tricks after the devastating news. I passed my painting as I headed back to my father, he seemed to have aged twenty years since I had seen him last, his wrinkles multiplying, his frown seemingly his only emotion and that greatly worried me.

I paused and went back to my painting, which was in the centre of the room, a messy sheet underneath the colourful canvass. The paint seemed to be dripping off the canvas. As though the lady is crying, her tears of red and brown were racing to the floor. I watched as my painting cried and all I did was stare. The tears seemed to be coming from all over the canvas, as they formed a puddle on the floor. Her wise face, a mush of black and white. Her knowing stare, an ugly pool of paint resting on my floor. And all I did was stare. Then Silence