Written: May 2006

Disclaimer: I do not own this. Just like I do not own money.

Author's note: I wrote this for my English teacher when I was his assistant. Except the paper was originally about me.

Dedication: To my Dad and my English teacher. I love and miss both of you more than life itself.

Mockingbird

By Pedal

Kaito shuddered through a sigh as he lay down on the couch, just wanting the sick feeling in his stomach to go away. He waited as his back unkinked and slowly dispersed pain until he was comfortable enough to relax his muscles. This problem, this bad back of his was many things. It was a freak flying accident that needed to be fixed, something that required frequent painkillers, something that worried his friends, but most of all it reminded him of his father. He did not want to forget him, but he did not need to remember every five seconds that he would never see him again. Stomach still turning, he closed his eyes and continued to wait.

Two third graders stepped in the door together, laughing and sharing anecdotes from their day. At the top of the stairs inside the house stood the boy's mother, who was usually home much later than three in the afternoon. "Kaito, Aoko-chan, I have something really sad to tell you." The mother's voice broke. The children stared. "Kaito's dad died." It was as if she was too afraid to tell Kaito on her own, and stated the fact as if only Aoko was listening. The children stared still, unable to move for a minute or so before Aoko broke down.

Kaito's eyes flew open, the ceiling's shadows dancing above him. He had not cried that day so many years before. He had never figured out why. It was probably due to some sort of denial into which he had fallen. Now he was a junior in high school and could count on one hand how many times he had cried since then. Almost all were for his dad. Maybe Kaito should remember this while he could. Maybe it would help him keep the memory forever. Screw being happy, he thought, I can be pissed and sad for a few minutes if I want. After all, he would be hanging out with Aoko and Keiko soon and probably would not be able to stop giggling the entire time.

The snow streaked over the window as it melted from the weak heat of the bus. His reflection was pale and blank, covered with the deepest layers of masks. So deep that he really believed everything was all right for a second. But no little boy with such a ghostly face looked 'all right.'

The old, dying bus stopped in front of the middle school. It was the last day before winter break, and there was a field trip scheduled to the museum. He did not have to go to school, of course. No one would have blamed him for staying home. The quiet struck him strangely as he stepped from the bus, giving him an indescribable feeling of finality. Kaito always liked snow for being quiet, though. Its silence made up for the trouble it caused otherwise. The white suited it.

He did not talk to his friends in the hall; he didn't smile. It would have made him cry, and he was not ready for that yet. Crying meant accepting it happened—accepting Dad died. Not yet. He could not say goodbye yet. He pulled her stuffed cat closer and closer throughout the day as he explored the museum with his closest friends. The end of school finally came, and as soon as Kaito arrived home, he slept until dinner.

Some New Years present this was. It was eight days before December thirty-first, and no one in his family would laugh for a month. It seemed so to him, anyway, when he had visited his grandma's house soon after his mom broke the news. Out of all those people, all those people who had loved and enjoyed Kaito's dad's company, he was the one whom he loved the most. He was his favorite person. He was his angel, his muse, his shadow, his partner in crime, his comedic double, his helper, his nurse, and his baby. And Kaito loved him more than anyone alive.

Early Christmas Eve, Kuroba Touichi's memorial service was held. And Kaito cried then. His tears of anger came freely, not noticed in the sea of crying mourners. Then once those tears came, his sadness was quick to follow, to take its chance. On the way to the wake at his grandma's house, he cried silently for his father, watching his ghastly reflection again in the car window, where no one else could see him.

Cat food. It smelled like cat food. Kaito sat up, nausea long gone, and sniffed the air. His mom was probably making a tuna sandwich. Thank goodness he was feeling better; it stunk. He turned to look out the window; it was dark outside, too. Had he fallen asleep? Then something must have woken him. A missed call blinked patiently on his cell phone, which sat quietly buzzing on the coffee table next to him. It had been Aoko.

Twenty minutes later, Kaito had picked Aoko up from her house and they were on their way to the park for some nighttime kite flying. Keiko was barred from going out so late.

"Cat's in the Cradle" by Harry Chapin came on the handheld radio as Kaito flicked through several stations to find a song they knew. Silent tears slid down Kaito's face, and a single, soft gasp caught his friend's attention.

But Aoko knew what the problem was. "Are you okay?"

Kaito bit his lip, nodded, and began singing along with the song. "When you coming home, son? I don't know when, but we'll get together then, Dad. You know we'll have a good time then." His voice rang clearer than usual; words wavered though his pitch did not.

Aoko waited a few moments, until the instrumental bridge came. Until they fell into step together. Then she spoke, quietly, "You sing really well when you're crying. It's different."

This soothed Kaito. His dad would have said the same thing. Just like the lull in the song, a lull in his sporadic breathing came as he whispered, "Thanks."

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My teacher's note he wrote to me before giving back the paper:

It is good and right that you grieve. And it is OK for you to grieve in your own way and on your own schedule. It is OK to laugh, too.

I bet you think of your dad more often now than you did when he was alive. I do with my wife. And so I see it as a way to continue to be with her and carry her memory. The relationship has change, but it has not ended. It never will.

Don't be angry about the funeral. The minister or priest had a job to do—to tell the mourners what they wanted to hear. You know your dad in a way no one else does. Don't hold it against them that they are not as lucky as you are.

You also have an understanding friend in Kitty Aoko.

So there you have it. Another depressingly true story from my weird life. His wife died from cancer a few years back, and he's been like a second father to me since I was his assistant for the last quarter of high school. I'm just glad it could be his class that was my last. It's a good way to remember. I'll stop ranting and let you get on with your lives. Thanks for reading, though. If anyone got this far, it means the world to me.

If you were wondering, this is the same Kitty I'm writing my Pokémon story "Children of the Revolution" with. Love.