Eleven Years

"If you don't take chances," sad the man in the striped pajamas, "you might as well not be alive."

The brown and orange leaves crunch beneath my feet as I walk along the long, curvy sidewalk. I’ve been on my home for almost half an hour now. Despite the fact that my mom has a car and no job, she refuses to drive me to school in the morning. So now, here I am, walking home in the cold, autumn air.

I watch as the leaves fall in front of me and I hesitantly step on them. The sound of them crinkling gives me the chills; both physically and mentally. Physically, because it can’t be any more than thirty degrees outside; and mentally, because the sound reminds me of the time my dad played catch with me when I was just six years old. That night, it was a cold, autumn night, just like this one. My dad taught me everything about baseball. From the way you catch the ball, to the amazing sensation that comes over you when you finally get a strike. I remember feeling insanely happy that night, but when I went to bed later, I heard my parents arguing. I sat in my bed, pretending to sleep, and just listened to the hysteria. I thought about running into the living room and interfering, but then I thought, no, I shouldn’t. Soon after the fighting was over, I was beginning to fall asleep. But little did I know, my dad was packing his bags.

I woke up the next morning more confused than ever. The memory of my parents fighting the night before was blurred; I could hardly even remember what they were arguing about. But I guess that’s how a brain works at such a young age. Though I couldn’t remember why they were fighting, I knew they were fighting. I hopped off of my bed and went into the kitchen to see my mom balling her eyes out.
“Mama, are you okay?” I looked around at the empty kitchen, “Where’s daddy?”
“Honey, go back to your room. Your dad will be back soon.” I went back to my room and slithered into my bed once again. I lied down, curled up in my blankets, and hoped that my dad would be home soon.


It’s been eleven years since that day, and my dad still hasn’t come home. Do I hate him for leaving? No, I don’t. But now, as I walk along the sidewalk enclosed by tall pine trees, and breathe in the cold, crisp air, I can’t help but think about that night: the last night I ever saw him. The one thought that comes to mind is, if I would have interfered and stopped their arguing, he might have stayed. My advice to everyone is: please, please, take chances. If you don’t, your entire life could be insanely different; and when it’s different in a bad way, there is no point in living.