“Smile, my baby girl.”

"Don't you take my baby girl from me." He is an old man, grey haired, seated on the edge of the bed. The corner of the mattress sags sorrowfully beneath his weight, the wooden structure creaking with each jerk of his sobs. A soft chime rings out into the empty room, each tear that rolls from his cheeks patters against the glass of a photograph frame that he clutches dearly in his stiff, aging fingers. I can see him from where I stand, half hidden by the doorway. Through the mirror I can see his face, even though his back is towards me now. I can see the frown turning his brow downwards. I can see his grey eyes rimmed with tears. The way his mouth twists to form the repeated words, ‘Why? Why?’ And the way he cranes his head back, scowling at the ceiling as if his cold gaze would pass through the roof and to the gates of heaven, and pierce the heart of God himself. His little girl is gone, and she will never be coming back. Sorrow rules his life now; he can find time for no other thing. I rest my forehead on the cold wood of the doorframe, feeling it soothe my skin, ease my worries, closing one of my eyes. This is not the first time I have done this. Stood here. Watched him.

This man seated there used to laugh. He used to smile widely and joyously. Not just his mouth, but his eyes would light up too, and all you could do was smile back. I remember that smile. I could never forget it. When I was young, he used to look down at me with that smile, to make sure I was alright, to begin to talk to me, to reassure himself that I knew what was going on, when he took my hand in his to guide me across the road. That smile. Everyone used to say that I had inherited that smile, that subtle curve of the lips. I touched my fingertips to the soft flesh of my mouth, feeling how the muscles worked in the very motion that we seemed to take for granted. Yes, people used to say I had his smile. But I have not heard it said for so long.

“Oh isn’t she darling.” They used to coo, kneeling down to my level, looking into my eyes and pinching my already rosy cheeks. “She’s just like you.” I remember feeling that comforting squeeze of his large hand on mine. I remember tracing my eyes up my arm, and up his, into that warm gaze and welcoming smile. I always knew he would be there to hold my hand, to protect me. “You must be so proud.” And I knew that he was, even though he never used to say it. That kind of sentiment didn’t need words. And I don’t remember ever needing to hear it either. I guess I just knew it. I suppose that was my comfort, that no matter what I did, I knew he was proud of me.

I never abused that respect. Never. I made sure that I was good, made good choices. Like not to cheat even though I was struggling with that last maths question, like not to give up on the last leg of that marathon. To not be ashamed of my singing voice, even though it wasn’t the best. Like not to drive tired or drunk when I had gotten my licence. And to know when a party was getting out of control, and to call him when I needed him. He taught me what to do; he helped me more than I could say. He used to be that man that smiled.

But not anymore.

Not anymore.

He blames himself; we see it day by day. The horrid accident, that fateful moment which changed us all. We couldn’t have seen it coming. We were driving, just enjoying the peaceful night. The roads were dark, various spaces illuminated in an orange haze of the streetlamp. The wind streaming in through my open window was chilled, brushing my hair back from my face, letting it billow out in its full length behind me. I had been humming my favourite song, a soft tune that I was determined to master. My mother was gazing out the window on her side. And he had his eyes on the road. Every now and then I would glance up, and our eyes would meet through the reflection of the rear view mirror. I could tell he was smiling, even though I couldn’t see his mouth. His eyes twinkled with that suppressed joy, and his voice was light as he asked me if I was warm enough. I was. I liked the cold. The roads were almost empty, we were returning from an evening meal out at my favourite restaurant. We were celebrating my birthday.

“Look at that idiot.” My mother remarked from under the glow of a red traffic light, as some young driver sped down the road. Some comment was dropped about how lucky I was to know better than that. The red glow lifted to green and we set off.

He blames himself for that.

But he wasn’t the one who ran the red light.

He wasn’t the one.

I can’t remember much now, it happened all too fast. I remember turning my head and seeing it there, right in front of me. It reminded me off all those drive safe commercials they aired on television, where you get the point of view of the passenger. Only, this was so much scarier. There was such a deafening screech, this high-pitched drone that went on forever, rattling through my ears and reverberating through my skull. It was painful. So painful. It was their brakes, some car’s brakes that were giving out under the strain, the sound of metal twisting around me as the back end of our passenger carriage was severed and detached, obliterated into rubble and shrapnel on the road. The glass windows shattered, raining down upon me as I tried desperately to cover my face with my hands. I heard him calling my name. The road was warm; the tarmac around me was eerily warm. It reminded me of the night sky. I was there, looking into the blackness, the endless stretch of dark, littered with small shimmering objects I only now realise to be broken bits of glass or metal. Lights were all around me, I heard voices rise and fall in a clutter of noise. I couldn’t feel my fingers. I figured I had fallen asleep on them, and that if I rolled over, the blood would soon return and I would be back to normal. But I couldn’t roll over. I didn’t want too. The tarmac was warm. Eerily warm. It felt like my warm bed underneath my cold cheek. I exhaled softly, feeling calm in my current situation. Something moved in the corner of my gaze, something rippling beneath me with each breath I took. I was lying in a pool of moisture. I had never seen so much blood, not even in the movies. I didn’t think it could have been possible. I wasn’t sure if what I could see was real or some horrid nightmare. Tears were quivering in my eyes, blurring my vision, and making what light that reached me stretch out into flares across my sight. So beautiful. So sad. My name. I heard my name again. Someone was crying, it might have been me. I was dying. I was allowed to grieve.

“Don’t you take my baby girl from me! Don’t you take her from me!” He was yelling. I’d never heard him speak like that before. I wasn’t exactly sure who he was yelling at. Perhaps it was the driver of the other car. He was fine, his car was crushed, but he was fine. He wasn’t smiling anymore, that much I knew. He wasn’t smiling as he looked down at the young, broken girl, ironically, still strapped into what was left of her seat.

And I haven’t seen him smile since.

They had been racing, those fast and dangerous cars. And we couldn’t have known. He still blames himself. And so he sits there, on the end of my bed, looking down at that little photograph of us. The wooden frame is faded and discoloured, watermarks staining the varnish. He sits there. And I stand here and watch him. Everyday, I stand by my door and look down at his back, rocking with the desperate sorrow he tries to utter under his breath. I watch his face through the mirror, I wait until he utters my name. I hear it, in that soft, desperate voice. Lifting my weight up from the doorframe, I advance into the room and stand a little behind him. I can still see his face in the mirror, but he cannot see me. Even if he looked. I stretch my fingers out to him, to brush my knuckles softly against his cheek, to wipe away his tears. I smile to tell him it’s ok. I use his own beautiful smile back at him, to fill his own heart with the warmth that he gave me for so many years. But he cannot see me. I move around to his front, and kneel before him, resting my head on my hands in his lap.

But he cannot see me.

And I cannot stay any longer.

“Don’t cry for me anymore Dad, I’m ok now.” I say to him as I climb to my feet. “I’m happy. I love you.” I whisper in his ear as I lean forward to brush my lips against his cheek. I can feel my own tears spilling. He brings his eyes down from the ceiling, his gaze frantically roaming the room around him. He cannot see me. But he knows I’m here. “Bye dad. Take care.” I whisper one last time to him and step back. From all the lessons he had taught me, the ability to smile was his greatest achievement. And now it is mine. And perhaps those angels in heaven will teach me how to master that tune.