Oh, Father

This is a story about my father. I will be writing in here, trying to put something together. Sadly, all events are factual.

I took my cues from the silent man even as he took in the poison to prolong his life. He looked one way and I looked the other. My mind’s eyes fell upon yours and I could see your question, that one word. I could feel it in the air around you as if it was palpable. “Regrets?” I spoke your question unbidden, then whispered my reply. “So very many that at times I cannot close the door to my mind.”

As time passed, what we could have been languished. We would walk straight up to that line, toe it even, but never crossing. At least not until that line blurs and becomes the circumference to a grave. A straight line that cuts across the manicured lawn of a cemetery revealing freshly dug dirt. Is it strange that I remember almost nothing from the funeral? In the cold air I heard the winsome pealing of a trumpet as Taps was played. I looked up at the lone figure on the hill, squinting my eyes against the sun and the distance. “I know him.” She murmured to herself. The boy was younger than her but she remembers him from band when she was a senior. She could not recall his first name but she knew where he lived. He was, in fact, from the same gravel road where she grew up.

But I go too far...too fast. Away from the funeral and back to when the sickness began. Perhaps now, on this paper, I am destined to live my life backwards.

As I slowly hang up the phone, it is all clear to me now; the weakness, fatigue and the headaches. Daddy had been feeling out of sorts for a while now and daily needed more and more rest. The day to put the first crack in my heart was the day he passed the butter. My father, a gentle warrior of a man, picked up a butter dish to hand to me. His hand shook as if the weight of his own arm was too great, the weight of the dainty porcelain was overwhelming. I looked into his eyes and reached for the dish, saying nothing. My father did not speak to me. I thought he did not have much interest in me since I was a girl and the youngest. Raising kids was women's work and especially raising a girl. I was a fool and I did not understand until it was too late.

I did not understand until the day after that phone call. That day, gathered around the hospital bed, we all tried to think of positive things to say. Each child said something, all were in attendance, all four of my older brothers and my mother. My daddy looked at each one of us in turn as we spoke. When it became my turn, my mind screamed, wondering what to say. I reached down, my fingertips touching the bedcovers and I spoke. I don't even remember what I said, I can only remember what he did.

They told me it was the tumor, they said it was where it was in the brain. They told me that he could not control his emotions because of the pressure exerted on the area. They said that was why he cried. But he cried for no one else, my daddy cried for me alone. He cried for the daughter he never spoke to, cried for the girl who felt unloved by him. As the words ceased coming from my mouth, his tears dried up, only to reappear when it was my turn again. It was like some insane game of musical chairs where the music stopped and I was always left standing in the spotlight.