Slam of the back door and the noise of loud, unbalanced footsteps making their way into the hallway. The rush of setting aside the toys and preparing for the door to my bedroom to open. In a moment the door handle turns a little tentatively and then turns all the way in one gentle swoosh. Father makes his way in still wearing his collared shirt from work with his tie slightly loose. The sensation of him reaching down and picking me up off the ground with his calloused hands around my wrist. Now that he is closer, I can see his unshaven stubble on his face and the wrinkles of his dress shirt. He pulls at me for moment in almost an invitation to come with him until mother makes her way into my bedroom. My father lets go of my arm and turns to my mother expectantly. She yells and points to the door, and they go and close the door behind them. The yelling continues with my dad first and my mother continuing, their awkward footsteps can be heard bouncing around in the hallway. Louder and louder they get and get until all of the sudden deafening silence. From the silence comes crying, unbalanced footsteps making their way out of the hallway and the slam of the backdoor.
Those footsteps never came back as every single day I awaited expectantly to hear them upon the opening of the backdoor. Days turned to months, months turned to years and yet I so expectantly wait. After awhile the sound of footsteps entering from the backdoor turned to distant echoes and the sight of my father turned to blurry photographs of what used to be. These sounds however never turned to silence and these memories however never faded into obscurity. Sometimes I close my eyes and I see him. As I look at him, I realize some wounds never fully heal.