They were gone. My daughter singing in the shower loud enough to wake us all up on a
Sunday. My son breaking the window with the baseball he got for his birthday the day before
tryouts. My wife making breakfast and the smell of pancakes and coffee that filled the house
mixed with her sweet perfume dancing in the air. All of them gone to the one accident I couldn’t
repair in the house. For a moment my life was perfect, and then it wasn’t.

       I was halfway home from work when I remembered I hadn’t picked up the milk my wife
had asked for before I left the house, so I turned back to go get it. I remember parking the car and
knowing something was wrong, we were expecting to add another to our family in the coming
week and my wife was always in her rocking chair by the window waiting for me, but this time
there were no needles creating the soft, baby blue blanket for our second baseball player. I ran
into the house to my worst fear, an accident my tools couldn’t fix.

       All three and what could have been four of them were gone, their blood soaked and
stained the carpet the darkest shade of wine. They were spread around the house, my daughter in
front of the door, my son in the living room next to the piano, my wife underneath the rocking
chair we got for our fifth wedding anniversary, and our second baseball player face down in the
kitchen sink with the water over flowing onto the tile. I could only imagine their screams, yet
mine were loud enough to cut through the thick musk of blood and terror. Whoever this was
didn’t only take four lives, they took five; they had taken me with them.

     My father was the Chief of police at the time when they were investigating the murder
and they always came up empty handed, no weapon, no prints, never enough evidence for a case.
My anger was like boiling water every time I saw the red and blue light that promised safety;
they did nothing for my family and now I don’t let them do anything for me. I lost my family
thirty-four years ago and I lost my trust in police and anyone that promised to help that same
day. They told me they couldn’t find anything to bring justice for my, “loss.” I couldn’t accept
there never being an answer, so I kept everything until there was one. The newspaper articles and
police reports began to pile so thick on my carpet it covered the stains. I couldn’t bring myself to
wash it out in fear of needing their DNA back. For the same reason, the shower and the bathroom
and the dishes they used that day are frozen in time; never washed and never moved.

       Eventually my neighbors noticed how thin I had become when I would leave my house
once a day to get the mail and turn back. They meant well and got Meals on Wheels going for

me, but you see, it’s hard to eat so alone,  or even think about going into the kitchen my second
baseball player was left in. I wake up some mornings and smell the exact breakfast my wife had
made the first morning after our wedding on our honeymoon. Pancakes, potatoes, black coffee
with sweet cream, and a slight hint of char from the bacon. Bacon always made her queasy
during her pregnancies but she would still wake up early in the morning to make it for me.
Sometimes that haunting aroma makes me feel full, like I’m there with her again.

       My routine anymore is stagnant, but when I woke up one morning on my way to the front
door to get the mail, praying one day I won’t see my daughters remains staring back at me,
willing her father to save her, I slipped on the baseball left by coffee table in front of the
window. I tried to balance myself with my cane, but instead of striking it hard into the floor, it
struck my foot. My old, thin skin broke at the blow but I wasn’t crying from the pain. I felt like
my son had come to me, and in an instant I didn’t feel so alone anymore.

​So Alone

By Katie Smith