All I could focus on was the sound of the rain. My head became a battleground for the thunderous thuds that the droplets made as they fell upon the skylight. Time seemed frozen in its tracks, but at the moment, time only existed for me. The rain continued to dance on my ear drums, almost like a bass line, as the music of Beethoven’s “Pathetique” drifted in, then out again, of my mind.

I held the photograph in my hands, watching it, looking at it over and over, as though by some miracle it would be different; changed; like opening an empty fridge, walking away, then opening it again a moment later, expecting it to magically be full of food (we’ve all done that). But the photograph was still the same.

Somehow I could now feel the rain on my face, the tormenting sound of it still crashing on the skylight. A drop fell onto the picture, only not a raindrop. A tear. My tear.

I closed my eyes and held the picture to me and wept, “I can’t believe my father is dead.”