Cancer

The first time I killed my father I smothered him with a pillow.
Maybe I figured the silk cover would be gentle on his skin; maybe I just couldn’t bear to see him suffer any longer.
Sometime after midnight, I entered the bedroom.
My mother slept on her side, my father on his back.
Doubt crept into my mind. And sorrow.
I grabbed the pillow and pushed down.
At first, no reaction.
Then he clutched my wrists, put up a brief pointless fight. Then sighed.
As I woke up, I cried because I’d killed him, and because he wasn’t dead.