Epifanio


He looked at the bathroom floor covered in his hair. His black hair was paint, meticulously trickled over the canvas of white porcelain tiles. It fell in curious patterns, taking on the shape of barren branches in an autumn park. There were even certain spots where his hair seemed to be spelling out words. Old or die, he swore they were for him. Epifanio fell to his knees and scooped up the all the hair with his hands. He held onto it for a few moments. It was just more of his life that he had to let go. They were not just dead cells, but pieces of himself, pieces of his past. Each strand of hair had a memory. He held at least thirty of them now that he had to let go. He threw each strand in the wastebasket. The first few were the easiest; they were memories of his first day of school, falling in the mud or laughing with his childhood friends. He even let go the one of his parents taking his dog out to get shot. They said he had rabies. There were others, too, that he could let go, but not the last one. The last one was of his wife, the way she looked the day he first saw her. The wind ran its fingers through her hair. Sunlight followed her wherever she walked. Her eyes were pools of summer sun showers. It was as if the elements had decided that she was the only reason to exist. She was wrapped in a red knit scarf that nearly reached the ground. She walked with a sense of purpose, as if there was someone's life depending on her arrival. This memory he would not let go. He took this last strand of hair and put it in his pant pocket.

Epifanio got up off the floor. His pants were wrinkled now, too. He tried to smooth them over with the palm of his hand. He leaned over the sink and into the mirror. He studied each wrinkle in his skin. Every line and mark he had earned. Each wrinkle was a trail that marked where he had been. He had gotten in fights and had battled a bull. He had the chicken pox and had broken his nose. He had been in love and had each wound kissed. And though his face had history, he would have traded it all for youth. There was an old man in the mirror whom he did not recognize. This face did not belong to him; it was his father’s. Gone was the young man with the Hollywood looks who had the world firmly under his feet. This is all he had left; leather skin, calloused hands and a receding hair line. His life was made up of cells that were either too old or entirely abandoning him. He turned on the water and washed his hands with a small piece of soap that was left on the sink. He dug the dirt out from underneath each fingernail. The soap turned a deep brown and he rubbed it in his hands until it nearly disappeared. He ran his hands underneath the hot water until it ran clear. He dried his hands with a small yellow towel he had gotten from his parents for his wedding. The towel was worn and had a couple of holes in it now; it too had once been youthful.

Epifanio turned off the light and walked into the bedroom quietly; he was careful to not wake his wife. She fell asleep with her makeup on; her lips were dark red and her eyelids shimmered. Her hair was still black as coal; her skin was like freshly fallen snow. She looked like the maiden in a fairy tale. She was always the most beautiful woman in the room. After forty years, she still made his heart beat a little faster. How could he explain to anyone that since the moment he laid eyes on her, there was not one thought he had that did not conclude with her? There were nights he would wake up and sit in his rocking chair just to look at her. There were nights he would wander from the house and walk through the farm barefoot wondering how he would ever survive without her. He knelt by the bed beside her and concentrated on breathing in unison with her. He inhaled each one of her breaths. He took her unmoving hand and held it to his heart. He would never sleep if it meant it could always be this way. He gently kissed her hand before tucking it under the covers.

Epifanio began undressing slowly. He placed his trousers and shirt on the arm chair near the bed. He folded each item meticulously before placing it down. He walked around to the other side of the bed. He lay flat on his back and covered himself with the sheets. For a long time he stared at the ceiling, concentrating on a small crack he noticed. He supposed he would have to fix that before it got any worse. He couldn’t afford to have a leak in the house. Perhaps his son would be able to help him. He was too frail and old to do the job on his own anymore. Asking for help was humiliating. He hated to burden anyone. His entire life he had done everything on his own. He had never been particularly tall or muscular, but he was strong and determined. Everything he had he worked for and obtained on his own. He built his home, his farm. He had a wife and family that he solely provided for. But as time passed he was able to do less and less. His family needed him a little less with each passing day. This knowledge was heartbreaking. Epifanio's eyelids became heavier and heavier and he eventually drifted to sleep.


He awoke the next morning to breakfast in bed. Josephine had brought him a fresh cup of coffee along with some buttered white toast and two eggs sunny side up. He waved the breakfast aside and pulled her onto his lap for a morning kiss. Josephine ran her fingers through what was left of his salt and pepper hair. She gently kissed his forehead and then his eyelids.
"You have to eat something today, Fanio. You have eaten very little over the last few weeks. You look so frail. We can't have the both of us ill."
He placed his index finger over her lips. "I haven't had much of an appetite lately. I will eat when I am hungry, I promise."
Epifanio had made a deal with God. If his wife got better, then he would eat. He could not control her cancer, her chemotherapy, her loss of appetite, but he could certainly control his body. He figured he could suffer so she wouldn't have to; the universe would be in balance. So far, it hadn't worked. The doctors had told him Josephine was getting sicker. But he knew that miracles happened and he would never give up on her. He vowed to never give up on her.

The fact was he physically could not eat. It was something that his wife could not understand. His stomach would not allow him to eat. There was this undiscovered universe in the pit of his stomach, a few planets and black holes, constellations but mostly open space. It was so vast, he could barely breathe. Or it was the feeling he was out at sea, lost with no land in sight. The waters were not navigable; he was on a small rowboat that was about to capsize. There was nothing only saltwater, sun and the limitless feeling that he would never again see another soul. Or perhaps the world was on a carousel and he was the child waiting for the ride to stop. Except this carousel went too fast and all that was on this ride was a blur to him. Peoples faces were distorted, the horses looked like creatures from a horror movie. His heart beat too loud and fast, it swelled in his ears. But these feelings passed and after a while everything slowly came to a halt right before him. Every time he found his way right back to his wife.

There she was, holding his face in her hands, with a smile that he would have given his life to see. "Fanio, what are you thinking about; you seem a universe away."
"Amor, only how much more beautiful you get with each passing day."
She kissed him once again before leaving the room to get started on her chores.

Josephine liked to clean the house every morning. She dusted, swept, mopped, cleaned the kitchen and bathroom with bleach and fed the animals by 10:30am. She then started lunch which was always ready for Fanio by noon. Her afternoon was spent washing dishes and preparing dinner. In the evening, she would sit on the porch and watch the sun go down from her rocking chair. Sometimes the children would come by for dinner on weekdays, but mostly she and Fanio ate alone. Josephine was content at home. She enjoyed taking care of her home and her husband. She loved being a wife and a mother. Her children were grown now, and though she missed them terribly, she loved having grandchildren. Each time a child was born it was a new chance at life. Weekends were consumed with family. All six of her children, their spouses and her 14 grandchildren congregated at her home. Each one would bring over a different dish and they would eat out back in the yard. The children chased the chickens or fed their unwanted food to the pigs. Everyone spoke loudly and out of turn. They teased one another and laughed. They ate and drank and talked until the sun went down. Some may have seen it as chaotic, but Josephine never felt more at peace. She never wanted it any other way.

Fanio watched his wife walk out of the bedroom. He got up and closed the door behind her. He took his plate and tossed the eggs and toast out the window. He was sure the animals would find the discarded food. He took a quick shower and shaved, got dressed and went into the kitchen with an empty plate in hand. He snuck up behind his wife and embraced her, slipping the plate into the sink. "Thanks sweetie, it was delicious."
She turned toward him, "You see, you look better already. You got some of the color back in your face."
"Yes, all thanks to you." They heard the front door open. "That must be George. I called him this morning to help me fix the roof."

George opened the front door which was always unlocked. He walked into the house unannounced. George was the spitting image of his father. He was Fanio thirty years ago. Everything from his looks, to the way his shoulders hunched over, to the way he drank his coffee was identical to Fanio. George lived in New York now but would come every summer to spend time with his parents. He was his father's favorite, although no one would outwardly say it. But Fanio's eyes sparkled when George entered the room. The two told one another everything; they respected and admired one another. Their relationship was the textbook example of unconditional love. They never needed any explanations or apologies, they never needed to ask for help or say I love you. They just knew exactly what they were to one another and their bond could not be weakened by an ocean or a calendar. "Are you ready yet, Papi or do I have time to drink some coffee?"

"I'm ready Georgie; the coffee will just have to wait until lunch time. You should've gotten here earlier, your mother made a great breakfast."

"That's ok, I ate. Marta made an omelet this morning. How are you feeling, ma? You look tired."

"I am a bit tired, I may lay down for a bit after I finish the dishes. Is Marta coming by for lunch?"

"Yeah she should be here soon to help cook, she was getting Milena dressed."

George and Fanio left Josephine to the dishes. They went to the shed and grabbed the toolbox and the ladder. They climbed to the top of the house and sat on the flat roof. Fanio opened the toolbox and took out two cold beers. He tossed one to George. This was their routine now. There was no leak. There never had been. This was their excuse to catch up with one another. Fanio was sure his wife had caught on by now. He'd been using that crack in the bedroom ceiling as an excuse for two years now.

George saw Martha arrive with their daughter. He waved to them, making sure to conceal his beer. Milena enthusiastically waved back. Fanio waved at his granddaughter. She was such a beautiful little girl. He was proud of his family; his eyes began to water.

"George, I have to tell you, take it all in: your wife, your daughter, your life right now. Time changes everything. It's something I can never get used to. Like how time stands still for anxiety or hope but is passes too quickly for beauty, ecstasy and laughter. There are moments when you realize that this is the best feeling you have ever had- the best thing you have ever seen- the most peace attainable- and yet the next day comes. And just like that it is gone. The next day is mundane. The next day holds no value. So you wait for the day after that or next month or year when something really worth living for will happen. There are days you feel like hiding in your bed, wrapped up in your sheets. Those days tomorrow is your savior. Then we are grateful for time. Then time is something with which we save face. There is always something you must do to make better use of your time. Something to do in preparation for time, or to save time, or to have more time. Time must pass for growth, maturity and financial stability. Time must pass for wisdom, pain and to forget. Time never stands still for those things we truly value in life. Time mocks love, family, friendships. Time is an enemy at best and yet your best friend. It has a way of giving you exactly what you have always dreamed of, then taking it right from under you. When you truly want something, you must wait for it, and time goes by too slowly. When you are enjoying yourself and wish for nothing to ever change, time passes too quickly. When you are young and have the health and energy to enjoy life, there is not enough time. Then you are old and have all this free time but your health and your body have been ravaged by time; you cannot enjoy things the way you once did. And during all this time all you can wonder is how much time will you have left. I use to think the older I got the wiser and more accepting I would become of all of this, but it's just not happening for me. I am old. Your mother is ill. My life no longer needs me. You understand?"

"Papi, where is this all coming from? I hate to hear you talk like that. You sound like you have given up, and you have never been a quitter. You are not old. You have a long time left on this earth. I won't accept it any other day. And Mami will get better, I just know it. You are just worried about her and you feel helpless because you cannot control her illness, you cannot control her cure. Some things you must leave in the hands of God. Have a little faith, Papi, and everything will be as it should be."

Fanio could see that his son was still too young to understand. It was the same response he might have given himself thirty years ago. He would go no further. "Yes you are probably right," he quickly changed the subject, "I am thinking of adding a second story to the house. That way you and Martha could stay here with us instead of at your brother's. What do you think?"

"I think it's a great idea. It will take some time, though. But you can count on me to help."

Just then they heard the back door slam open. Martha ran out and yelled while Milena came crying behind her.
"George, Fanio, come quickly! Josephine collapsed."



Epifanio walked into his home; it was like walking onto the empty set of his favorite TV show. He knew and didn't know every piece of furniture, every knick knack, every chipped tile or creak in the floor. He walked into the bedroom and fell into his once favorite armchair. He felt as if he had woken up alone after a favorite dream. He looked around at his wife's things. Everything that she had touched was beautiful. Her clothes, her toiletries, even the smallest piece of jewelry. He tried to concentrate on her face, but all he could hear was the voice of the doctor filling the room. Terminal, blood count, a few days; these words were handpicked and arranged in ways that gave new meaning to them. These words would forever change his life. He had not wanted to leave his wife in the hospital, but his children insisted he go home to rest, as if that were even possible now. He had been at the hospital for three days straight, without much sleep, without much food. While he was there, there was no other place he could have imagined himself. But away from the hospital, away from the sounds of synthetic heartbeats and the smell of desperation sterilized, Epifanio could pretend everything was as it had once been. He could smell the oversized pot of chicken and rice cooking while his wife sang off key ballads. He could see his children feeding the pigs out back. He could look in the mirror and return to the face that still had years of hope. But today the house was dark and silent. There was as little sign of life in his home as there was in his wife. He fell out of his chair and onto his knees. Though he tried, he could not weep. He had to be strong. He would be with his wife soon. Yet he would not return to the hospital again. Memories of his life with her would remain intact if he did not go back. He could picture their life together as it had always been. He could stay in his house forever; he could keep his beautiful wife and children in his heart as he wanted them. No one would grow older or get ill. He could control everything the way he wanted.

Epifanio got up and looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot; he had dark circles under his eyes that looked as if they had been drawn on with charcoal. He ran his hands over what was left of his hair to smooth it over. His cheeks were sunken into his skull. You could see every bone that ran through his body. He was hollow; he was a skeleton. Epifanio impassively walked to the tool shed and toward the old wooden chest of drawers. His fingers lingered over the rusty handle on the last drawer; he used both hands to slide the drawer open. The blood flowed to his face; he could feel his ears and cheeks getting warm. It was as if he was opening a secret. If he was quiet, no one would find out what he was up to. He felt like a teenager trying to access his pornographic magazine collection. He was ashamed. He knew exactly what he was looking for; he'd bought it just a few weeks ago and put it away himself. He took the manila rope out of the drawer and held it in his hands, running his fingers up and down the braiding. At the time he bought it, he had only half known its purpose. He held one end of the rope in his left hand and the other end in his right hand. He formed a loop, letting it hang downward. He twisted the rope around itself. He had learned to tie this kind of knot from his father. They used it for hanging angles to fish lines. Once the noose was formed, he threw the rope over one of the ceiling beams. He walked over to the step ladder; it was the one his wife used for hanging curtains or pictures. He positioned it under the rope and climbed to the last step. Once atop the ladder he fastened the loose end of the rope to the beam. He fussed with the noose for a while until he felt it was just right. Epifanio slipped his neck into the noose. By now he was sweating. His shirt clung to him; his thinning hair was soaked and matted. He had a few images in his mind: his wife in her negligee on the night of their wedding, the faces of his children and grandchildren and the feeling of the warm sand beneath his feet. Epifanio pulled the single strand of hair that he had been saving out of his pant pocket. This would be his last memory. He closed his eyes and his hands closed into fists at his sides. He clenched his fists, clinging to the strand of hair as tightly as he could. His heart beat faster; it was the only sound he could hear. This was his time, the time he chose. Everything would remain as he wanted. He would not watch his wife die or his children get old. He would not let himself grow any weaker. He would not grow old alone only to die at the whim of a God he had long ago lost faith in.
Epifanio took a step off the chair. This was the end of everything. He would be fifty-five forever.