It was a dark, gloomy day in Oklahoma. The clouds act as sponges about to burst with the heaviest rainfall of the century. The rain within the “sponge” was imminent and proved to be a large sum based on the almost-black gray coloration revealing in the sky. The droplets were begging to be freed from their confinement up above. Dust bowls were known to occur after a terrible storm in Oklahoma so it was gravely crucial to prepare for the inevitable. A wooden farmhouse sat right below this unbecoming, sleeping dragon. Its almost-destroyed stone fence was slowly seeing its last days with the family who dwelled inside the farmhouse. Every crevice of this fence were battle wounds of its dedicated fight against threatening clouds above. The fence was able to rest for soon, we were about to abandon their aged abode due to being evicted by the “monster” known as the bank.

My family and I were frantically gathering our belongings into our torn–up and weathered cocoa-colored suitcases. I grabbed what few sparse clothes I owned that laid upon my twin-sized tattered bed. Most of them were hand-me-downs from my unpredictable older sister, Eliza. Eliza was six and a half years older than me and filled the role of our late mother who passed away shortly after my birth. Of course, I felt guilty and responsible for being the cause of mother’s death and I wished that Eliza’s blame wouldn’t fuel that raging monster of guilt more. Evidently, I also knew that deep down she truly didn’t believe I was the one to blame further enhancing the conflict within our relationship. Our dear father was almost consistently absent throughout the years of our journey of life; he was always working on the farm in hopes of being able to support our family of three, limiting any time together. Father didn’t earn enough profit from his crops and could no longer afford to pay the bank for the small farmhouse. 

Freddy, our senior boston terrier, slowly made his way into my room as if he was telling me that it was time to load up the 24 model T. Handmade into a truck by Father, it held lots of mileage while using little gas, however, it wasn’t reliable. I quickly grabbed my suitcase with a groan and walked out of my slightly off-white wooden door.

Soon, we were completely loaded in the small-sized truck and were ready to take off on our dangerous yet hopeful journey to California, the land of promise. This could finally become a new and fresh chapter to start our family story in a state of the West which promised many job opportunities for the poverty stricken farmers in the South, such as us. We had been driving for seven hours until father finally decided to take a rest stop on the side of the aged and heavily cracked road. I decided to use this opportunity to finally get some sleep to carry out the foreign adventure. Little did we know, meanwhile, tiny mosquitoes made their way inside the interior of the truck.

About seven hours later, Father awakens and gently alerts my sister and I. Our journey resumed back on the course to California.

“Will California be worth this long and dangerous drive?”, I asked with full acceptance of an answer I most desperately feared.

“Darling, we had no choice. The “monster” evicted us from the home my ancesta’s built. Need to be able to afford to live, ‘ya know.”, sighed Father.

I thoroughly noticed the slight change of tone in Father’s voice. It was almost too noticeable to ignore. Eliza glanced back at me with a head shake from the passenger seat.

“We’ll be okay. Stop including ‘yaself in adult problems that don’t include ‘ya.”, Eliza exclaimed while rolling her eyes.

Absent-mindedly, I slumped back in her seat and watched the scenery outside the car window unfold. I counted at least thirty cars on the road leading to California. It was as if other families had the same expectation as us. That was when I also noticed the small-rounded bite mark on Father’s right forearm.

“Pa, ‘wha is that on ‘ya arm?”

Father glanced down for a second and then looked up to relocate his sight on the road. I wasn’t sure on how to respond to his unnerving calmness.

“Mosquita ‘bit me last night apparen’ly. Don’ worry ‘bout it, peanut.”, he hummed.

My instincts felt as if he was putting on a facade to hide his true fear. I knew about the inevitable disaster a pesky bug bite could bring if it were serious. My friend’s father passed away after a week from the insect bite incident. Currently, there are no cures or medicines affordable to the poor. Perhaps, the wealthy landowners could afford the ticket out of desperation. I prayed that Father’s health would be as healthy as a horse but my gut told me something terribly different.

California was finally in sight. Eleven hours of ongoing road trip could finally come to an exasperating end. Father didn’t seem all quite himself. Days passed and Father couldn’t find a suitable job with a sufficient salary enough to withstand our lower class lifestyle. Suddenly, all of that didn’t matter as the sudden outburst of his declining health secured that. He suffered from cold sweats, shivering, fevers, vomit, and constant inability to refuse the intake of a sweet sleeping period. It was all too familiar; he was suffering from the common disease of malaria. Father passed away twenty-four hours right after experiencing symptoms of malaria and we knew all hope for a sufficient life was lost no matter what state we were in.