Never Letting Go

It was barely dawn when I came into the kitchen. Dad was standing at the screen door, still dressed in his dark suit and houndstooth tie Mom gave him on his last birthday. Even his shoes were still on from the night before. The jacket’s shoulders sagged, and his trousers pooled around his slender frame, but he hadn’t bothered to change.

"Can I make you some tea, Dad?"

"Where's your mother? She said she was going into town this morning, and I told her I'd go with her. She wouldn't go without me." He pushed the door open a crack, just enough to see the driveway, just enough to make sure the car was still there.

"How about some breakfast. I'll make French Toast. I know it's your favorite."

"Mattie!" he called out. "When are you coming down? French toast won't make itself!" he hollered up the stairs. Just like clockwork, ever since I can remember, Dad shouted up the stairs to Mom, informing her when he was ready for breakfast. And Mom's response was always the same - 'Patience, Martin! Water my flowers for me, will you? They won't grow themselves!' A routine of their breakfast banter I had all but forgotten.

Until last year, life had unfolded precisely as Dad had planned. When the two of them, barely out of their teenage years, committed to living a long, loving life together, he knew they had the real thing. He always said it was more than love; it was reverence mingled with love, devotion, and admiration. Their journey spanned over 60 years until the day she did the unimaginable – and it broke his heart.

"Listen, Dad," I said as he yawned. Since turning 80, Dad was slower to wake. "I was thinking we might want to move to the beach for the summer, you and me."

He looked at me, then toddled his way to the kitchen table where a collection of albums sprawled. A clutch of pictures lay scattered. One caught his eye, and he picked it up – Mom sitting on the edge of the porch, her ankles neatly crossed, looking away from the camera, just as she always did.

"This is the first blouse she ever sewed. So proud of that silly bow. But look how pretty she is!"

He flipped backward through the album – Mom bent over her flower garden, gloves up to her elbows; me, on Mom's lap in a grade school photograph. There were several candid shots of her at her sewing machine. She was sliding her fabric in some and others, threading the tiny needle. In one photo, Mom and Dad were standing in a doorway. She was looking away from the camera, eyes squinting like a cat as if she was trying to make out some form in the distance. I watched Dad look over at the doorway to his left, the very doorway in that picture.

When he didn't answer, I pressed on. "It'll be fun. Like taking a trip. Just you and me."

"Amanda, what are you thinking? We can't leave your mother here. Alone!"

The day Mom died, it felt like all the goodness had just disappeared. It's as if time stopped, and Dad got stuck in it. His eyes were weighed down by pain, but his mind refused to accept her death. Despite a whole year passing, he can't seem to move forward. I hoped visiting Mom's grave yesterday would somehow pull him back to the present.

"She's gotta be somewheres. Maybe she's up in that damn sewing room. I swear she loves sewing more than she loves me."

"Why don't we eat breakfast on the porch, Dad? I'll bring you your French Toast and some juice," I suggested, wanting to shift his focus away from the photo albums.

"Yeah, OK. I need to water your mother's garden first. Remember to butter the toast, Mandy. And don't be stingy with it."

By the time the screen door slammed behind him, shards of morning light had already painted the yard in a sandy glow. The wooden boards of the porch creaked beneath Dad’s weight as he settled into his favorite rocker. "Your mother put this rocker on the curb one time! Did I tell you that story?" he shouted to me in the kitchen, a hint of amusement softening the edges of his grief.

"She said sitting in it makes me look old. I dragged this ol' thing back onto the porch and nailed it down. See these nails? Drives your mother crazy. Every time I sit in it, she crinkles her nose and squints her eyes like this. She forgets that this is the chair she was sitting in when I proposed. Yah! This chair ain't goin' anywhere."

As I stepped outside with the tray loaded with French Toast and a generous dollop of butter, his eyes creased in a grateful smile.

"Dad, let's talk about the beach," I suggested, placing the tray on the table and settling into the chair across from him. The old porch boards groaned in agreement as if acknowledging the weight of the conversation. He looked at me, his face under the toll of age, skin worn and loose, lines etched deeply, curving downward with the weight of years, revealing the weariness and wisdom that time had gracefully imprinted. His blue eyes now grey.

"The beach?" he echoed. His gaze softened as waves of nostalgia washed over him, if only for a moment. "What's at the beach?"

I leaned forward, trying to infuse enthusiasm into my words. "Remember how you and Mom used to talk about spending summers at the beach, just the two of you? Well, Dad, what if we do it? Spend the summer at the beach. Just you and me, like a little adventure. Something different."

His eyes wandered to the flowerbed, the begonias overrun with weeds, maybe lost in memories. "Your mother always talked about collecting those tiny little seashells," he murmured, more to himself than to me.

"We can bring her with us in our hearts," I suggested gently. "It might be good for both of us, Dad, a change of scenery."

He let out a long, low sigh. The heaviness of his loss was noticeable. "Amanda, I don't know. What if she needs me here?"

"It's been a year, Dad. I think Mom would want you to live a little. Remember the good times and let them help you move on," I encouraged, hoping to thaw the frozen moments that kept him stuck. I really believe that a change of scenery, like spending time at the beach away from the familiar sights in the house—the bedroom they shared, the sewing room, even the dying begonias—might help him acknowledge her death and find a way to move forward.

He stared at the wilted flowers, then shifted his gaze to the nails securing his rocker. Rocking back and forth, he tested their strength. Gradually, with the weight of reflection settling upon him, he nodded. "Maybe... maybe it's time for a change." The words hung in the air, a subtle admission echoing with the unspoken heaviness of his grief.

We sat silently a while longer, the prospect of the beach trip lingering in the air until Dad's eyes lit up. "You know, we should find that old camera of ours," he mused, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Mattie loves pictures."

I responded with a gentle smile on my face." "Sure, Dad. We can do that."

He nodded. The notion of preserving memories seemed to bring a glimmer of joy. "Gotta remember to snap a few for Mattie. She'll be thrilled to see us having a good time."

As we wrapped up our plans, Dad pushed himself up from the creaky porch chair. "I'll go inside and let Mattie know about the trip," he announced with a twinkle in his eye as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

I rested my head on the back of my chair as he disappeared into the house. My father was not going to let my mother go. That was a fact. For Dad, she was alive, probably up in her sewing room, as always. In his world, she would never be further from him than that room. Time had halted on the day Mom passed away, and Dad was frozen in that eternal moment. In his world, she remained alive, awaiting the news of our upcoming adventure, and I silently hoped that, in some way, Mom was listening, thrilled about the pictures we would capture at the beach.