Day 81

“If the house number wasn’t 13, do you think your father would have died?” My mom asked me as we were getting ready to take the dogs out for a walk.

“I don’t know.” The question caught me completely by surprise. After all these years — and this address was mine for decades — it never occurred to me that the house could be cursed because of our address. I knew the house number was 13. I knew 13 was an unlucky number. But I never put two and two together to wonder if this is why I’ve lived a luckless life. Now, however, it seems to make so much sense. “Did you often wonder if the 13 brought you bad luck?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “It’s always bothered me. Especially now. If we lived in a different house, maybe he wouldn’t have died.”

I’ve been going over numbers so much lately. It’s hard to turn away from superstition. And as we walked passed the house of another victim, I couldn’t help but notice the 13 in his address as well. In Dad’s death, the unlucky Asian 4 collided with the unlucky American 13. Luck has never been in my corner. Now, I feel the curse burning even hotter all around me. 

I saw a Father’s Day commercial, the first I’ve seen this year, and I started to cry. Father’s Day used to be one the happiest days of the year. This year, I dread it. I’m not looking forward to the day where we honor fathers, when I no longer have one. 

Mom is working hard to understand how to use her computer. Things even I — who struggle with technology — find intuitive, she struggles with. But she takes notes diligently, determined to earn a place in the 21st century. We spent a great deal of time going over some of the basics: how to send an email, how to do an internet search, how to file documents into differs folders. She’s getting it. Slowly, it’s starting to make sense for her. 

It’s still hard being in this house. I miss Dad so much. I go into his room and sit on the bed and look at his things, the things he was supposed to come home to and I just cry. His ties hung neatly in his closet. The picture of him and my son. His jewelry box. He wasn’t supposed to die. Not now. Not yet. Why did this virus have to take him away?

The death toll hit 110,000 today, but news of the virus has been ignored in the wake of the recent protests. With the lack of reporting regarding the virus, one might think Trump was right, that like a miracle it simply disappeared. No one is talking about it. Everyone is focused on George Floyd and the need to end police brutality. Why aren’t reporters better at multitasking? Why do they always hyper focus on only one event. And these protests are going to set off anther spike in cases. I don’t see how the can’t. With thousands of people taking to the streets, the virus is bound to spread and infect more people. Why aren’t we talking about it any more? 

I miss my son. I’m looking forward to Saturday when I will see him. He’s looking forward to Saturday when he will see the dogs.