Right at Sundown

There was the pond and there was I, the floating inbetween- the two legged stance in motion, tending my heart-my father, and a drowning memory. At any given moment I could be upended by Dad's passing; as he was passing, ever so slow, limboing amid oxygen and angst. Death represented itself in the water and in the waiting and all I could do was breathe, in a purgatory complete with well fed catfish rolling in the shallows.

I had realized after a conversation with Dad only a month earlier- that he was in need of great love. That he was perhaps- in the greatest need of need, but was blatantly independent, rugged and virile, and often ugly unfair in his acceptance of anything even remotely close to the weakness of the needing. One mustn't need, one must want, and know thy wants and go for it always and forever, amen. When you're barely upright and taking in air though, perhaps it's time to deeply wonder and not alone. His voice wavered, I could tell by the way he carried through in conversation that the volume seemingly went up and down- like a drunk at a karaoke party, stumbling in and out of microphone range. I wondered if he was struggling with even holding his phone up to his ear, had his strength waned so much since just a few days ago in conversation? His call from the Midwest to my receiving in New England alerted me, his daughter- the gal who ran away from a basement of a life to live with him and brothers in a sterile environment for he-men, not so much contoured for she-women; it told me without him actually telling me- come, soon.

From Bangor to St. Louis I flew, taking a train further into the Ozarks where lush met rolling hills, where train windows showed something of the redneck revitalization strong and much in demand still where corncob pipes smolder. The train eased into the station that mimicked a more modern resurgence, with a crumb or two tossed towards progress in a Mexican grocery store across the street. My brother was not there to greet me as promised, but came after a lengthy conversation with a fellow smoker- who couldn't believe a Mainiac was in his mist, and was quite smitten- not so much with me, but of his memories of our most beautiful state. My brother was not glad to see me; the stirrer upper, the do-gooder, the no status quo queen...yep, a thorn in his side. He went on and on about Dad's craziness, his outbursts of emotion (egad- not that!), his utter lack of regard for what these pushy relatives of mine were trying to push upon him. Ahhh, I wondered inwardly- this is why my guts are twisted, the old man can no longer defend himself or his dignity and that mattered more to him at this stage than nutrition. I don't know enough to pour in a thimble, according to my male counterparts- but when they needed someone on their side who was loyal as all get out, lousy with leniency in their outdated views and ballsy when their own mushy parts somewhat disappeared when forced outside their frigid comfort zone, they called me. The very thing they most despised of me was the learned ability to reach in, feel around and pull out a transitional respect from a place- apparently, they could not reach within themselves.

There at the pill populated table, a creature resembling a holocaust victim, shrouded by fuzzy blankets- sat my dad. My heart hit the floor, I kicked it around a bit with my toe- a CPR of sorts that might resurrect it to it's cradle spot back in my chest. I remember stifling tears, sounds, snot- none of these would help Pa at all, his dignity in shreds- somehow I mustered the courage to bely every natural reaction my whole being was trying to compute and hugged him. His bones under my embrace, the skin and smell of everything I have come to know of this rock of a man, a shock hit the sheltered place within me that only Dad could have provided, and that place shook like a thunderstorm in a cave.

Pills were sorted, lists were made- favorite foods a must. Chicken and noodles, fried mush with syrup, butter beans to beat the band- mashed with sugar and butter, his heart could take it or it couldn't but who the hell could worry about that now? Dignity comes in many forms, in many bowls- it was my absolute honor to fill them.

We were off to a strong start to face an end. That no one was talking about. That no one, including doctors bothered to let the old guy know- hey, you're dying. Like, in a matter of weeks, a real terminal job. Sign here. My first battle was going to be a bloody one, those twists in my small intestine intensified until I got a satisfactory time and date and soon- to have the old man examined. I took the fill in nurse practitioner aside and said "tell that man the truth, it's all he understands and no one has uttered a bit of it for too long." In essence, I picked up a sledge hammer- gave it to the NP and urged her to knock my old man into next week; that hurt more than all I've told, for there is nothing in me now and since- that would hurt him. It had to be done, the echo of all the strong women in my life rang in my backbone.

The battle lines were drawn, all was holy- here was the gist of the gist of the gistiest, only truth from here on out buddy, I'm the girl for the job, let's do this thing, let's figure out all the steps, the slow dance that I will do with you and you will do with me (although I had never, not even once danced with my father) and we will waltz together and it does not matter to me Dad, who leads- does it you? So we swayed this way for days on end; to the stars singing and the clouds laughing with all the invisible people in the room who frequently showed up right at sundown- taking his slippers on and off no less.

"Could you see them?"- he wondered out loud. "No, I can not," I said- "but I hope to some day."