I was startled by the phone as it rang loudly and buzzed off the wooden coffee table. As it lit up I could see my sister’s name flash across the pearly white screen. Answering it, I greeted her with “Hey, sis …?” Pausing, she answered “get down to Dads”. A few days before, we received the news that our father’s health was steadily deteriorating and he was not expected to survive the next week.
It was raining, suiting the mood. Throwing on my shoes and grabbing a black zip-up hoodie, I headed for the door. As I ran out of the house many thoughts raced through my mind. I started to think of how I had spent the last few years and suddenly regretting not spending more time with him. Thinking of all the: “coulda”, “shoulda”, “woulda”, took up most of my drive and before I could blink I was pulling into his driveway.
I noticed the atmosphere outside the house seemed dreary, the ground muddy and cold. January’s climate was unforgiving this particular day, though I could not feel the sting of winter when I stepped out of the car. As I walked to the door I felt several chilly rain drops descend unto my neck from the pitch of the roof and saw my breathe escape into the air when I exhaled. I caught a glimpse of my oldest brother’s car parked alongside the house; I could tell it had been there a while. I remember the sound of the screen door as I grasped the cool metal handle and pulled it open.
Walking down the long corridor that meets the living room, it was easy to see clutter had taken over the house. There was no real collection, just random objects placed about. He loved estate sales and pretty much lived on Ebay. He was sitting back in a sandy-toned recliner and draped with a cherry-colored blanket. The smell of cigarette smoke consumed me along with the faint smell of my dad from a recent shower. Bluegrass was playing quietly from a radio placed near a book shelf filled with old Bibles and knick knacks. The subtle light illuminating the room came from a small lamp resting atop an end table.
As I visited with my siblings we reminisced about old times. For that brief moment, the reality of what was going on escaped me. I looked over at my dad and he was fiddling along with a bluegrass song was playing. In his state of deliria caused by the cirrhosis and the kidney failure he was enduring he had no clue what was going on. I went over to him and peered into his sapphire glazed eyes. With my sister standing beside me, he spoke. “I love you, girls, so much” Astonished, we both cried.
At home, I jumped into a hot shower to rinse the stench of sadness away. A strange feeling came over me. I prayed. I prayed that God not let him suffer anymore. I told Him that I could not stand to see my Dad like that again. “Lord, please wrap him up in your arms, amen.” I slept. The phone woke me at 4:27 a.m. My heart felt like it was in my stomach. He was gone.
I’ll never forget his handwriting. He wrote in all capital letters, it seemed to just flow right out of his pen. Like him, my brothers shared the same penmanship. A tattoo he had on his arm, ridden with wrinkles and faded ink, I can still see it. Though it was partly grey and in need of a good cut he always had a full head of hair. Mostly I remember those last days, how blue his eyes seemed and the last conversation we had. A tear slowly made its way down his cheek, which I wiped away then laid my head on his shoulder one last time.
It’s been three weeks since my dad joined Jesus in Heaven and started dancing on white fluffy clouds floating alongside roads made of gold with light feet with a bright painless face. It’s been three weeks. I find myself thinking about every last detail of those last days he spent with us. Though I’ll never fully be healed from him leaving me so young, I know one day I’ll get to throw my arms around him and hug his neck. For now, I will use what I have learned and apply it to my life to honor him the best way I can. We love you and are missing you. In the words of my brother, “Rest easy, Dad”.
This is the Essay I wrote for the Anuran 2012. Entries due by Feb 24th.
