Eric caresses the surface of the box. He presses his forehead to it and closes his eyes. A moment passes, and I remember those days Sony fell asleep hooked up to a ventilator. I remember how he used to cry and choke it all down so she wouldn’t wake. I remember the whispers I could never make out every night after tucking her in. It’s only now, as I hear it up close, that I realize they weren’t renditions of good nights or little reminders to stay alive or anything so confined to a nurse-patient relationship. They were a father’s I love yous. Eric opens the box. “Good night, Sony,” he whispers.
...more
