Birthdays are special, even your 81st. It was definitely a special day. People who I had rarely ever seen were roaming around our house. The little white house on Price Street was more than overcrowded this day. Dad was turning 81 and that brought everyone to town; at least that is what my 9 year old heart was telling me. I knew one thing; when the house was full of people the food was abundant and that made the day special for me.
Dad was in his usual place. The front porch was where the early summer breeze could be felt and away from the noise in the house. Across the street was Dad’s garden. To me it seemed huge, but in his mind it was just enough to keep his kids fed and the neighbors appreciative. We spent plenty of time together in that garden the past few summers. The garden was a testament to Dad’s indomitable spirit and passion to under-gird his family through the sweat of his brow. We never lacked for healthy food, fresh vegetables and sweet melons. My favorite memories are those where we were together either in the garden or sitting together on the front porch. It still puts a smile on my face every time I eat biscuits and tomatoes; our favorite snack to eat together ---the precious memories of times with Dad during the summer.
This particular day and those that followed I do not remember much about the garden. Those days were to be overshadowed, dulled by the pain that I could not in my youthfulness foresee coming.
Dad loved to be on the porch. My favorite place to be was on the first step or playing in the dirt right in front of the house. I didn’t have friends that I can remember that well. People that really influenced me were always close. Brothers, Sisters, Mom and Dad were my world. On this day, most were present, if my memory is trustworthy. All I know is that in the background numerous conversations were taking place and I wasn’t part of any of them. It did seem that something needed to be done and that arrangements were underway. Dad was in his chair on the porch just waiting.
Dad’s illness had apparently worsened. Nine year old boys like me were not privy to all the information being exchanged among the others. Dad’s pace had certainly changed, and I knew that he was struggling more and more for each breath. Mom was notably anxious these past few weeks leading up to this day; rightfully so, I guess seeing all that would follow.
Everyone was in the front yard when Dad stood to make his way to the car parked in the road. I had caught enough of the conversations by now to know that Dad was headed to the hospital. His Birthday present was the presence of his children. For him that was plenty enough, on this day at least. I watched as he steadied himself with his long walking stick. Standing at the bottom of the step as he descended he seemed weary and yet in my eyes he was larger than life. Someone was on his left helping him down the steps, who I do not remember. This was the moment a sense of dread and despair began to invade my life. Something wasn’t right!
Emotion and sentiment wasn’t part of Dad’s personality. Expressions of affection were reserved and limited. This particular day that wouldn’t change. Looking up to him as he descended those few steps, as any little boy would his father, all the world stopped for me in a moment in time. Frozen and etched into my mind, the memory, to this day can be played frame by frame. His hand reached out to rub my head, this was as sentimental as I knew him. The words he spoke were like cement blocks to my soul, leaving me alone in the crowd of soon to be mourners. Hand on my head, looking me in the eye, “Son I will never see you again”, he said. As I struggled to grasp the meaning of his words he made his way to the car to be gone moments later.
He was right! A few days later, in the shadows of the early morning I awoke to the whispers of my Mother telling others… “He’s gone”. I laid there trying to be quiet and cried myself back to sleep. Now, only his memory lives…..
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I can’t say I am much like my father when it comes to sentimentality. I long for, and enjoy the preciousness of a hug from you, my children. I can’t recall ever being affirmed or told that I was loved by my father. I will never stop telling you that I love you. You are more precious to me than my own life.
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