My father’s casket was in front of me, slowly being lowered down, the truck’s pullies whining as they worked. My father, Vincent Walker, had been well respected in the community. When he passed, the press wanted to have a piece, but we said no. In the end, all they got was a small obituary dedicated to the man he once was; something that hopefully wouldn’t come back to bite us.

Around me was a small cluster of my father’s friends and our family from both sides. The ground squelched beneath my feet, and I felt myself sinking with every step I took. It would be my turn soon to say a final goodbye.

The breath caught in my lungs. There were so many things I still needed to say – things that were never said. We were a tight-lipped family. The five of us felt a sense of comfort in silence. We often spent our time together without saying what actions could tell instead.

There was so much love that it didn’t need to be said and when there was all the time left in the world, it seemed like enough. Then there were only four of us left. Now, there were only three – Ethan, Noah, and me. It just didn’t cut it anymore; it didn’t feel the same.

They say that water cleanses the soul, but the rain had done nothing to soothe me. My father. It was just under a week ago. I thought I was ready; everyone knows that they will outlive their parents someday. I got the call late at night. And what could I say? I ended the call without a word and soldiered on forward like I always have.

Every word I had to say was told in the items left behind in my parents’ house. It was filled with a lifetime of memories. The most precious of which were not items at all, but the signs of a life well lived. There were stains from the mud trails on the carpet. Dozens of paths taken by tiny feet over many summer months. My mother had painstakingly tried to scrub them away, but they always came back, a little darker every year.

Those summer months were precious to me. I was wild. I used to hike up my skirts and run off to the fields with the boys. We’d climb trees, catch frogs, and play in the creek, testing the boundaries of what we could get away with. At night, we’d come back home smiling, exhausted, and covered in mud. You should have seen her face then; the disapproval was palpable. ‘It’s bad enough with just the boys,’ she’d say.

My childhood home was beautiful in its prime. Now, the walls were covered with peeling green floral wallpaper. My mother had insisted on them. After her death, the house was like a moment frozen in time. It was practically a mausoleum. While we were there, clearing everything away, we felt desperate to get it over with. In an attempt to make what was unbearable tolerable, we turned on the holoscreen.

It flickered and buzzed until a cheerful meteorologist popped up and waved his arms about, talking about clear skies. And that was it; it was decided. The three of us set the date for May 5th, a day that was supposed to be perfect. Instead, what we got were heavy, gray skies with no sun in sight.

It didn’t feel like home. It wasn’t home. It was made empty, and then it was sold. Now we were laying my father to rest for the final time, and I wasn’t ready. Not yet.

Before I knew it, I had made it to the front. And I had almost forgotten where I was, lost in memories of days long past. The casket stared up at me from below. Then, the wilted rose in my hand fell softly on top of his casket and I said nothing. There was nothing left to say because there were more words caught up inside of me than I could fit into a single farewell. Instead, I cried. No, I wept. And then the rain washed away my tears.

There would be no celebration. My father, being a practical man, had asked for something quick and simple. ‘Just get it over with,’ he had said. Sometimes, it was a blessing. Sometimes it was a curse. Today, I didn’t know which it was. Then, I watched as soft, wet earth was piled on top of him, and he disappeared from me forever.

I remembered then a psalm: “By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread, till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Genesis 3:19. Sometimes, in my line of work, you forget that you are only human. Even I forgot sometimes, in my hubris.

The rain was still pouring. My brothers, Ethan and Noah, begged me to come with them. They wanted me out of the rain, but I wanted space. After several attempts, they eventually gave each other a knowing look, shrugged, and went on without me. I was the last one then, standing there alone.

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Eventually, when my hands had grown numb, I dragged my stubborn body to the parking lot. And then I was in my car, turning the ignition, and heading homeward bound. I caught my face in the rear-view mirror.

Today I hadn’t been Detective Walker, a leading detective in my precinct; I was just Lana Walker, a member of the Walker family and my father’s only daughter, a position that never fit just right. I knew who I was as a detective, but who I was as Lana, the Lana that was just a woman? I was still working on that.

Filing a role was easy, being an individual was more complicated. My badge gave me a title; it gave me criteria to meet and a checklist to complete. There was no such guide on being a woman. At least, none that I was willing to follow.

I knew I wasn't the kind of daughter my mother wanted; I knew it from the start. I was too rowdy, too strange. No, I wasn’t a proper daughter, at least not to her. She would often fuss over me, equally confused and speechless.

I had inherited my father’s stature. Standing at five feet and eleven inches tall, I was well above the average height for a woman. My mother’s family thought I was strange and today it had been painfully obvious; it was in the quiet part no one said out loud.

All day while my father’s family and friends gave me their condolences. Those from my father’s side shared heartfelt stories with me and gushed over how much I looked like him, and I did. His friends told me what a good man he was and how, without him, the world was a little less bright. Meanwhile, those from my mother’s side had stayed pointedly silent.

You could say that I certainly was my father’s daughter. The only hints of my mother were in my eyes and my skin. I had her eyes and a slightly bronze skin tone. They were such subtle indicators of my Asian heritage that most people didn’t notice. I looked predominantly Caucasian, something my mother’s family scrunched their noses at. To their chagrin, it was my brothers that had taken after my mother, not me.

Then, I was on the road, and I was driving past all the city lights. Whether you wanted entertainment or debauchery, this was the place to be. Ads blared on every street corner from holographic screens on skyscrapers from overhead. Large gleaming women smiled at you with artificial cheer, selling you what would make you better, good enough.

My phone rang, knocking me out of my thoughts. Scowling slightly, I answered the call.

“Hey, Lana. It’s me,” he said.

“Gabe,” I sighed. “How did I know you’d be calling me today?”

It was Gabe, full name Gabriel Grant, at work he introduced himself as Detective Grant. I’ll admit that it has a ring to it. He was my partner and one of the only people I would trust with my life. His disembodied voice was cast through my car’s speakers. Normally, I would have answered the call with my Iris, but I wasn’t going to wear it today.

“Disappointed?”

“No, you know it’s not like that.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m just giving you a hard time,” he said. “How are you holding up?”

“About as well as can be expected,” I replied.

“And how’s that?” he asked.

“You know how it is,” I shrugged. “I suppose you could say that I’ve been better.” Pausing, I continued, “Is that all you wanted?”

“Yeah, just thought I’d check up on you,” he admitted.

“Worrying about me, huh?” I scoffed. “Save it for someone else.”

“Why? It’s not like I’m gonna run out of the stuff,” he huffed.

“Sure,” I responded. “Mind if I let you go now? It’s been a long day.”

“Nah, get some rest. Something big is coming up. You’ll need it.”

I heard a click and the transmission cut out and then it was too quiet. Waving my hand in the air, I motioned to my virtual assistant. The holo-screen on my dash came to life, illuminating me with a soft glow.

“No visuals,” I said and then there were only voices.

Overdramatic voices filled the cabin, a sappy soap opera was playing tonight. No doubt, it was one of those overplayed love triangles. Not exactly my cup of tea, but it was a sweet distraction.

Distraction was what I always wanted, and it was what I always got. There was no shortage of distraction in Volare City, the name was Latin. Perhaps someone more idealistic than me had meant for this city to soar. Did it? I couldn’t say. After all, this was the city that never slept.

Neon lights cast colorful shadows from all the heavily imbued patrons stumbling around the red-light district at all hours of the night. Street performers fighting for tips and praise lined the streets. It was a dog-eat-dog world.

Look at me, look at this, look again–that was what the entire city fed on and wherever there was hunger, there was crime. That’s where I came in. This city was rotten, and I lived off saving the people from themselves.

Eventually, the voices from the show melded together and my head was empty, and the only thing left was the road. And I drove. And I drove. And I drove some more. The smooth hum of the motor soothed my nerves and my clothes stuck to me in the way clothes always does when it dries to your skin.

I would have sworn off funerals forever if I could have, but that’s not how it worked. No, you don’t get to decide who lives or dies, not even in my line of work. I don’t get to play God; no one does.