I dream now of storms. Rain falls in sheets; white trees of lightning illuminate a pitch-black sky. My chest hums from the vibrations of the thunderclaps, but I feel safe. I am at work, walking from my parked car, holding a black umbrella just big enough to shield me. I am unhurried, and a man I want to kiss waits under an awning in front of a metal building. I can’t see his face.

All night, I dream this dream, wake up and fall back into it. The storm rages. The man takes out his keys. I walk with sure strides toward him. At five-thirty, at the first buzz of my alarm, I get out of bed and turn on the light. I sleep alone now. Karim has vacated our bedroom, sleeps instead in what used to be the office in the basement. Our king-sized bed is just mine now, a luxury I usually enjoy. Today I wish someone were here to hold me.

I go into the bathroom and rub my eyes. My phone rings, showing a peculiar, very long number—someone far away. I tend to ignore unfamiliar calls like this, but I am grateful that someone somewhere wants to talk to me at this odd hour.

Hello? My rough voice echoes against the bathroom tiles.

Seema?

It is my mother. She sounds very, very small.

Yes, Ma. How are you?

Seema? She asks again, her voice getting stronger. Seema? Abba died.

Shut up, I say, smiling. You’re kidding. This is not funny.

Seema. Why would I make this up?

Where are you?

In India, she says. We had come to Fort Kochi, in South India, on a trip. Abba went for a swim, we were leaving today. He didn’t come back. I waited for hours. And then the police called the hotel. He drowned. The words come across oceans, over masses of land, one by one, robotic.

One last dip, I say. It was a ritual for my father. On the last day of a beach trip, he had to have one last dip in the ocean. What am I going to tell the kids? At this, I begin to sob, then abruptly stop. Do I have to tell them? Can’t we just not tell them? He could just be on another trip. Until they’re a little older. Sam is only eleven, Zaki is just five. The divorce is so hard on them, life is so hard on them already.

But my mother will not agree. I navigate the slowly lightening house to get to Karim; I wake him and tell him. He believes it immediately and puts his arms around me. This feels so good that again I feel perhaps lies are okay. Do we have to tell the kids? I whisper.

He nods. But I don’t have to tell them immediately. I sneak off to work, the children still unconscious to the newest change in the landscape of our family. I ask Karim to take them to school. At work, I fill out bereavement leave forms, pass off work to colleagues. I tell acquaintances in the elevator that my father died this morning, to feel the words on my tongue. I am aware of their awkwardness, aware that this is a weird thing to do, but I don’t stop myself. I go to the deli and get three sandwiches, three bags of chips, three chocolate bars, and Gatorade.

I pick the kids up from school early, before lunchtime. They come out of their classrooms bewildered, shielding their eyes from the sun with their lunchboxes. The sun is beating down viciously already; the humidity in the air makes everything heavy. I steady myself, make my eyes bright. I smile and tell them, We’re going to the riverside for a picnic.

They are thrilled. Is it a special occasion? Were we especially good?

You’re always good, I respond. This is not at all true, and they shift uncomfortably in the backseat. Well, this has nothing to do with that. I just wanted to talk to you by the river.

They are satisfied by this and the conversation wanders as we snake along the hilly roads that lead to the park. We pack the picnic into a cloth shopping bag pulled from the trunk and begin the familiar hike across the bridge over the C&O canal and through the entrance into the wooded trail that follows the Potomac River. Here in the shade it is easier to breathe. Sam spots a snake and we bend over to peer at it, our heads close. I put my hands gently on their small backs, feel their spines protruding through their damp t-shirts. They are so fragile, so human and alive. We continue to hike.

You know, I always come here when I’m sad. It makes me feel good to be in nature and feel small and a part of something bigger than my own life.

Sam turns to look at me quizzically, one eyebrow raised. He quickly faces forward and continues, faster now. Zaki says, Yes, nature and especially trees, are much bigger than you. You are kind of small for an adult.

The trail is broken by tree roots and rocks and Zaki is a distracted hiker who trips often. Sam is far ahead of us. Let’s go to our spot and see how high the river is right now, I call to him. Can you remember where the entrance is?

He nods and slows a little. When he gets to the entrance to the little side path that will take us to the river, he waits. The canopy of trees stops rather abruptly at this point, replaced by tall grasses and thorny bushes. The drone of water dwelling insects is louder, and the river is just a few yards away, making its own music. We leave the dim, sheltered path for harsh unfettered openness, making our way to the water’s edge. It hasn’t rained in a few weeks and the water level is low. We sit on the large, smooth boulders closest to the water and I pass Sam his sandwich packed in wax paper and unwrap Zaki’s before handing it to him. Sam holds his sandwich, still wrapped and looks at me expectantly.

I close my eyes for a moment and then open them again. I look at Sam. His chin is starting to tremble; he can feel the bad news coming. This is the last moment of his childhood. Nani called me this morning—

No! Not Nana. Not Nana. Sam’s face has crumpled, tears mingle with the sweat on his face. Zaki is sitting on his rock, observing. His face is mostly obscured by the giant turkey sandwich between his hands. He looks from Sam to me and back again.

Sam returns his sandwich to me, takes a deep breath, crosses his arms. What happened?

We’re not sure. He went swimming, they were on vacation and we think he might have had a heart attack while he was in the water.

I want to go home. Right now, Sam says, ignoring my outstretched arms and turning toward the path.

Zaki hands me his sandwich and stands up too. I drop it all back into the bag and follow behind them. You know, Sam, Zaki says, scrambling up behind his brother. These things happen all the time to lots of people. Even Max the dog, our neighbor, died.

Shut up, Zaki, Sam growls back, picking up his pace.

I put my hand on Zaki’s shoulder and give him some Gatorade to drink. You’re right, these things do happen a lot.

Sam is further up the path now, and Zaki wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. It should be that when you die, you’re only dead for a day and then you come back. That would be better.

Yes, it would be.

We continue up the path, and find Sam squatting beside a tree. He holds his hand up to stop us as we approach. He puts a finger over his lips and then motions for us to proceed. It’s a frog, he whispers.

The little brown frog is blinking at the base of the tree, each breath making its tiny body quiver. Zaki leans forward, hands on his knees, and when he can no longer resist, he reaches a hand out to touch the frog. It hops away, navigating fallen leaves bigger than itself. We continue along in silence. Once in a while, Sam points to something beautiful as he passes it, but does not wait for us to examine it with him. He walks steadily on. When we emerge from the trail onto the towpath, Sam is skipping rocks in the canal. The towpath is gravel, so there are plenty of rocks to throw. In the interest of conservation, I usually place a limit on this exercise. Surely this gravel comes from somewhere and must be replaced. Today, I sit cross-legged on the path and allow them both to throw rock after rock into the water, watching the circles ripple outward as the rocks sink.

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This is an excerpt from Seema’s book When the World Breaks Open. For more information or to buy the book, please click here. Reprinted with permission from Red Hen Press.

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Author: Seema Reza

Image: Flickr/Kevin Krejci

Editor: Travis May