Year 13 English
By JJ Eteuati | Posted: Thursday November 6, 2025
The Observations of a Speck of Dust
I don’t sleep at night. I can’t. It’s been that way for as long as I’ve been here.
My mind drifts, never still, as if the night is the most optimal time for my most tragic and worrisome thoughts to creep in. And I worry. I always worry. About them. Always them. I listen every night, trying to hear their breath, whether it’s regular, whether it’s fine, but mostly… whether it’s present.
I’ve been with them since they came into this house. I’ve always remained here, with them. I can’t ever leave but even if I had the choice to, I wouldn’t. I’ve been here longer than anyone. Longer than their wedding vows. Longer than that creaking floorboard in the hallway. Hell, I’ve been here longer than the cat.
I remember a lot. It’s one of the few things about me that’s even remotely useful to them. When they misplace their car keys. When they lose a left sock. When they forget to check their supply of toilet paper before leaving for groceries - I remember. It’s pointless, of course. They never listen to my help. But I still find joy in remembering. I remember when he proposed. When she said, “Yes.” (By the way, who asks their partner to marry them in the middle of the living room after a completely uneventful dinner? It’s not how it looks on TV — but it was them.) I remember the sleepless nights after they brought home their first baby.
And the sleepless nights after they brought home the second. Not that I can sleep. I never could. Regardless of whether the babies were crying or not.
It was nice to be with them on the bad days; it made the good ones all the more worth it. The kids certainly didn’t make it easy. It broke my heart to see them struggle, slaving away at work for 40 hours a week, only to come home to tantrums and meltdowns and those apathetic little gremlins who were told to wash the dishes... but didn’t. Eighteen years of struggle, just for the first one to just up and leave one day. And then the second, a year later.
A whole decade of Christmases with just the four of us: me, them, and that damn cat. Ten Christmases, and only two cards to show from those brats. I guess they only feel like reconnecting during the festive season with their $2 shop card with a pre-written message. No visits. No phone calls. Not even a card for their birthdays. For ten long years. How could they be so blind? So ungrateful? To forsake the kind of love that only two parents could give. A mother who cleans for you, a father who makes your bed when you forget. To abandon the ones who raised you, who sacrificed everything for you. I may not be their child - but I’ve been here. I’ve stayed right here. I was here from the beginning. And I’ll still be here long after.
It’s harder now than it ever was - not just for me, but for them. I know their routine. I know what time they wake. What time he stirs in the night to use the bathroom. I’ve long given up on those two brats showing their damn faces again. I gave up on always expecting it. Mistaking it. And even hoping for it. They’re older now. Slower. And I worry. I worry every second of every minute of every day. They hardly leave the house anymore. I should be happy - more time with them, right? But I know what’s coming.
How can I endure a loss like that? What do I do when that time comes? How? How could those children let their parents fade away like this? Forgotten. Alone. I’ve always been here. Yet I can’t go with them. Not to the place they’re going. I wish I could say my presence gives them comfort. I wish I could help more. Do more. Be more. But I can’t. I’m just here. Quiet. Unseen. Clinging to corners. Gathering on shelves and windowsills. Blown and brushed away, again and again. But never gone. I hope they know that I’ve been here. That I’ve watched. That I’ve remembered. That I loved them in my own way. But at the end of their lives, when they leave this place and the dust settles… I, a speck of dust… remain.
