Zombie
Last Matchstick
written by: Alix WYH
The smoke fades slowly in the air.
-2 degrees.
A space buffering with sorrow.
People move as slowly as the drifting haze, and my mind is completely blank.
The coffee in my hand is my last matchstick.
Before I take the final sip,
what wish am I supposed to make?
72 hours ago, I saw your “shadow.”
In my dream, you scanned my figure and said,
“What do you want from me?
You haven’t contacted me in seven years.”
Dream-you was still healthy, still sharp-tongued.
It chilled me, yet somehow comforted me.
Your wife stood behind me and said,
“You’ve never reached out to him.
Why show up now and call his name?”
I watched both of you fade out of my sight.
And I picked up my military coat,
boarding the ship that was leaving the port.
France. Burgundy.
Winter has arrived; the first snow leaves no trace.
Just like my memories of you.
Father—an indistinct silhouette.
Your name appears clearly in my military records,
yet I do not know you.
Frozen emotions, sealed memories.
A familiar name, an unreachable distance.
My coffee has gone cold.
My thoughts dissolve like mist.
Our connection exists only in parallel worlds.
You don’t want to see me,
and I’ve long grown used to a life without you.
Always have.
You taught me that.
But I walked too far—beyond what you imagined.
By the time you realized it,
I was no longer the child you remembered.
You gave ten years to your country.
I lived through more than my age should’ve allowed.
Recovered from PTSD,
then spent the next decade being flown from place to place.
On the day I was shot,
as the world tilted in front of me,
the thought flashing through my mind was:
“Goodbye, Father.”
The hospital ceiling made me think I’d reached heaven.
I felt no pain from the wound.
I lived by counting the drops of the IV,
and the number of times the bottle was replaced.
I don’t miss you,
but I won’t deny you either.
You know this.
The psychology CIA taught you—
I learned all of it for free while growing up.
The icy road was the sign people called
the precursor to snow.
In my silent world, all I could hear was rain.
The warmth I lost only adds frost upon frost.
The drizzle soaked into my beanie and slid down my face.
In your head.
I received your message.
But this will be the first and last
“read without reply”
You’ll ever get from me.
