There are only two times that peoples’ bodies become heavy. When they fall asleep, and when they die. But for Kevin, there was a third. Cerebral palsy had robbed him of speech and movement.
Lilly took a long look at Kevin, the way she had always done right after feeding, cleaning, and clothing him. Her thoughts reeled her, and the reminder that he will never be able to play well with his siblings or draw the neighbors’ children to come play with him, seared her.
Over and over again, she toyed with the idea that Kevin could hear her. So she kept singing to him, speaking with him, even though the only responses Kevin could afford were grunts that were as heavy as his body was – as heavy as his mother’s heart was when they were both sunk into the corner sofa.
Lilly took a long look at Kevin one last time before they lowered him into the ground. After a short illness, his body had succumbed to its own weight. His last response was not from his grunting – fighting to find his speech – but from his eyes, as though he finally felt relief from the weight he had been carrying around for the last 18 years.
There are only two times that bodies become heavy. When they fall asleep, and when they die. In between, they glide from moment to moment, spreading their wings far enough so they teasingly touch.
Lilly flung the dirt from the grip of her palms and onto the casket, feeling the heaviness of her heart dissipating. Kevin’s body felt lighter in that moment. It was going to be a well-deserved rest, albeit in her memories.
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Read – The Pain He Brings – A Flash Fiction by Ugochi Onyeocha, Nigeria
