I guess the poet I read yesterday - the one who failed to move me - did leave me with something. He wrote about being lonely for his father, about being in love with him. Reading that must have slipped a seed into me.
What's it been now, four years? I lose track, but I know it happened right around this time of year. You were in the hospital, rendered low by a very tough combination of illnesses and conditions. The rest of the family had been visiting. I was sick at home with a fever and would not have been allowed in anyway. Something in the back of my mind told me if I was going to visit though, I'd better do it soon.
On this particular morning, I woke up sweating after a night of crazy dreams and high fever. There was a snowstorm in progress. This particular storm was unusual because the sun was shining brightly when the heavy snow began to fall. Your wife and daughters wanted to come to see you, but you told them not to chance it with the storm on it's way. When the nurse left your room that morning, you turned your face toward the window and died. I like to think you saw the sun shining and the snow falling together as an auspicious moment. In my bed, my first thought upon opening my eyes was he's going to die today.
We hated each other. I've tried to modify that perception over the years. I rationalized things, pieced together alternative narratives from scraps of anecdotes about your life. Yes, there were periods of truce between us. You did generous and helpful things for my family, and for me, from time to time. But I know you never liked me. Things said and done cannot be unsaid or undone.
I'm glad it ended the way it did though. For you, and between us. You died quickly and alone, so no one would see you. That's probably the way you wanted it. And you and I didn't have to look at each other, across all those years of antipathy, and lie.
What's it been now, four years? I lose track, but I know it happened right around this time of year. You were in the hospital, rendered low by a very tough combination of illnesses and conditions. The rest of the family had been visiting. I was sick at home with a fever and would not have been allowed in anyway. Something in the back of my mind told me if I was going to visit though, I'd better do it soon.
On this particular morning, I woke up sweating after a night of crazy dreams and high fever. There was a snowstorm in progress. This particular storm was unusual because the sun was shining brightly when the heavy snow began to fall. Your wife and daughters wanted to come to see you, but you told them not to chance it with the storm on it's way. When the nurse left your room that morning, you turned your face toward the window and died. I like to think you saw the sun shining and the snow falling together as an auspicious moment. In my bed, my first thought upon opening my eyes was he's going to die today.
We hated each other. I've tried to modify that perception over the years. I rationalized things, pieced together alternative narratives from scraps of anecdotes about your life. Yes, there were periods of truce between us. You did generous and helpful things for my family, and for me, from time to time. But I know you never liked me. Things said and done cannot be unsaid or undone.
I'm glad it ended the way it did though. For you, and between us. You died quickly and alone, so no one would see you. That's probably the way you wanted it. And you and I didn't have to look at each other, across all those years of antipathy, and lie.
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