I can hear everything, smell everything, sense what is going on around me. I cannot see, I cannot touch, I cannot respond. I am in a jail cell without being able to see through the barred windows.

My father comes into the room. Our relationship was fine, but that is all it was. I heard the occasional “good job,” but never the “I’m proud of you and I am glad to call you my son.” Even now, I could hear him sigh as if struggling to figure out what to say. Several antagonizing minutes of silence later, he leaves.

My mother comes into the room. She has always been able to convey everything going on inside that head of hers without conflict. I am never in the dark about how she is feeling. Not only have I gotten the “I’m proud of you and I am glad to call you my son,” but I have also gotten the “I’m very disappointed in you right now,” and “I feel like we never spend enough time together.” She has her own kind of silence as she stands beside me. I am updated on the events of the day: how she almost ran out of gas on the highway, a small fire broke out in the local diner’s kitchen last night, and how the presidential election is developing.  After several minutes more of empty words, I am once again left to my lonesome.

I know I have disappointed them. This circumstance happened to no fault of my own, but it happened nonetheless.

More days pass in the same pattern.

The fourth day finally presents itself. My father and mother come in together this time around. “Say something,” she prods. I can just imagine my father’s pained facial expression. 

“What do you want me to do?” he asks. “He can’t hear me anyway.”

I can. I can hear you.

“You don’t know that,” my mother responds. “For the love of God, say something.”

“Even if he could hear me, he still wouldn’t listen,” my father says.

My heart drops. I never knew he felt that way. I always thought that his lack of communication was tied in with lack of care. Little did I know, it was simply his own insecurity.

“How do you know that if you’ve never tried?” my mom counters.

Please try. I’m listening.

He leaves.

My mother sighs, utters, “God help us,” and does the same.
To my surprise, although I am unable to convey so, my younger sister bounces into the room later that afternoon. She is most likely skipping around in her favorite pink tennis shoes that light up with each step.

Her 6-year old fingers trace my eyes, nose, and mouth. I hear her muttering under her breath. When she finally speaks legibly, she says, “Don’t worry, Stevie. God says you’re going to leave, but everything will be okay.”

A moment later, she is gone.

The next few days pass, and my mother is my only visitor. She has always been persistent. Most of my life, I have been annoyed by the fact. However, I come to realize that I have taken her for granted. Throughout every pursuit of mine, she has been there to back me up. Most of the time, I only focus on her nagging; but that is just her way of spurring me on in my endeavors and showing her support.

I wish I could tell her all of this.

Mom, I appreciate you and all you have done for me. I’m sorry for any moment in which I’ve fought against you, when all you were doing was for my benefit.

It is too late. I lost my chance. One car accident took away all I that I had taken for granted.

A week and a day have now passed. The only words I have heard come from my father have not been directed towards me—not once. I am screaming inside, not able to be heard. My mother still spends time with me. Lately, she’s been into crossword puzzles. She says each clue aloud as if I could help her figure out the answer. But everything is one-sided. I have never been so frustrated. I want to get up and give her a well-deserved hug that is probably a good 6 years overdue.

Two weeks.

“Come here, Josie,” my mother says.

My little sister giggles and steps right up to my side. She whispers in my ear. “God told me to tell you not to worry. There is still time to heal, and everything will be okay.”

Earlier she had told me I was going to leave, and now she is telling me I have time to heal. I do not know what to think about the fickle words of a preschooler. Are they really from God, or are they from her childlike imagination?

Two weeks and a day.

“Stephen.”

With all my might, I try to turn my head to the sound of a male voice. I cannot.

“It’s your friend, Justin. Actually, we aren’t—or weren’t?—really friends anymore, if you don’t remember me. I don’t know. I’m not even sure why I’m here…”

Justin. Justin Morris. I do remember who he is, very well actually. We have been friends since infancy—were friends since infancy. That all changed for some reason. It happened within the last year. He distanced himself from me and chose to spend his time with other people. I never knew what happened.

“I feel the need to explain,” he continues. “Gosh, I’m not even sure if you can hear me. I could just be talking to no one.” A sigh. “I heard some things. Some people told me you were saying mean things about me, things that weren’t true. I don’t know why I ever believed it. I know you wouldn’t do anything like that. For some reason though, I believed it and now I feel . . . so terrible. I should never have let that ruin our friendship. I should have just talked to you about it like God says we should—“ His voice breaks, and he falls to the ground, sobbing. He grips my left arm with both hands. “God was putting it on my heart to talk to you about it all this time, but I didn’t. I didn’t, Stephen.”

Two weeks and three days. 

Someone walks in, changes their mind and walks out, recommits and comes back in. Takes my hand.

“Son.”

My father’s words pierce the silence.

“Son,” he repeats. “My son…”

Just say it, Dad, I beg. Say it.

“I love you.” He doubles over and lays his head on my chest, his arms wrapped around me. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” His tears pour onto my blanket. “I should have told you before. I love you. I’m so proud of everything you’ve accomplished. So proud. I’m sorry I never told you. I never knew how. My relationship with my dad was so screwed up, that I was afraid of screwing it up in the same way with you. Now because of my fear, I ended up ruining it anyway. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

The need to cry is bursting from within me. A tear breaks free and finds its way down the side of my face. The void within me from the absence of my father’s affirmation is finally filled, and somehow for a few seconds, I find the strength to utter a few words.

“Dad. I love you.”

All is healed. Everything is now okay. My time is done.

Unlike all the other visits, I am the first to leave.