The following story was written for a creative writing class in September of 2000. The assignment was to write a piece of “microfiction,” a short story in under 250 words.
I remember the day my father died. It was a long day, with more long days to follow. More than anything I just remember the papers. Since I was his only daughter, his only living relative, I had to take care of everything. They had me fill out the admission forms to get him into the hospital. Then I had to tell them if he was allergic to anything. As if that mattered when someone was in a car accident. But they needed to know, so I answered all of their questions. Then I had to fill out a police report, even though I hadn’t seen what happened. There were witnesses who had been there, but they had all been too close, and were injured by the accident. I had been at home, so I was the only one who wasn’t hurt. While the witnesses were being treated, I was the one who had to keep working. Later came life insurance information, hospital bills, funeral charges. I had to sign forms to validate his will, and talk to his lawyer about paying off his debt. So busy, in the days after the accident. There was so much work that needed to be done, and I was the only one to do it.
But throughout everything, I still found time to cry.