Pastiche of Cheryl Strayed

The clicking of the linoleum built the anticipation that I was about to see my uncle for the first time after the accident. Entering his room, the cramped feeling of the corridors slipped away. I must have arrived at the right time of day because God was peering through the window and into our lives. There was a warmth to the room, the kind that you feel in your soul and not on your skin. There was a leather chair in the corner of the room, which seemed untouched. I took my place on the window sill, the sun beaming down on my back.

The once firefighter struggled to sit up in his bed and put a smile on his face. Out of everything in the room, he appeared to be the one thing out of place. He hunched over, trying to adjust his johnny as if not to reveal anything. My mother rushed over in an attempt to help him, all the while he sat there scratching his head, adjusting his hair. His thin wisps of hair could not attempt to hide the gash above his left eyebrow that he received from smashing his face on the pavement. My mother tucked in the light green knitted blanket on all sides of him, as though he was about to sleep.I sat there pushing my black converse into the white floor, knowing the true problem wasn’t my Uncle’s hair, johnny, or even his concussion.