Stay… just a little bit longer

Nature's first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay

   ~ Robert Frost

Frost felt right at this hour, on this day, in this place. He was that kind of poet: his lines simply popped into one’s head every so often. He had other poems like that, as did Carl Sandburg. Women poets of the same time were thinking about other things and the cadence of their verses were different. Women spoke for themselves, but seemed to be addressing a listener. They might inquire about circumstances or experiences, while men often put forth theories or statements.

Maybe this theory of hers was not accurate, but she felt it was reasonable. Today Robert Frost had showed up along the way and she considered why this poem, short but often recited, had come forward. It was probably because her father’s birthday was tomorrow and she missed him. Missed his big heart - literally, because his heart was enlarged beyond medical sustainability. Missed the way his presence had signified certain things, had influenced her in certain ways. Ways he would never know.

He would never know because she had spent years - two or three - hating him. Not speaking to him. Trying to understand why she refused to look at him. She had never been able to figure out where the anger had come from. Freudian theory in Psych 101 were the closest she’d come. She loved everything about him, but he was in love with her mother. And that was that. But maybe Freud hadn’t gotten everything right? Had he theorized about the child who feels inadequate, not good enough to have the parents she has? She didn’t recall studying anything like that. It was true, though: she felt her father was too good for her, and that she was not good enough to be his daughter.

She could not begin to identify the source of this feeling of inferiority. It would be useless to attribute it to a domineering or abusive parent; that was not her case at all. Maybe she idolized him because her mother did. What did that say about her mother? Maybe she had the wrong verb and instead of idolize she should just say she loved him and leave it at that?

Maybe there had been nothing abnormal about her feelings for her father after all. Plus, everyone always assured her he was such a good person. And he was a hard worker, which she knew because she knew the hours were long and his clothes were often covered with graphite or grease. She never heard him complain, and very good people seem to have the tendency to complain very little. No complaining, even with multiple manual jobs, to make ends meet. She had known about the ends not meeting sometimes because only then did voices get raised. Only children can sometimes hear very well.

Funny how unmet ends can lead to the discovery of other types of wealth. How not having the means to buy at will can lead to creative thinking, learning to make things, to watch and listen, to imagine some roads lead to Oz and some are paved with gold. And so she had done that.

The worship had become a search for his approval. Work hard, be nice, see all people as good, just as she had been taught.

But not long enough. Not enough lessons.

His absence pushed her harder. His sacrifices had been draped over her shoulders and pinned on her breast since she was able to walk. She was driven, where he had not been. She had developed a temper, where he had been tempered by many unfortunate circumstances. He helped others or took the blame. He relayed tragic news or worked until breathless. She had to go on. He had known the meaning of honor, but she had not honored him.

She kept going. On toward success in her career.

She kept on going. Away from unpleasant memories, of failures and errors and doubts that a good daughter will never have.

She left it all behind. Left the grave, left the gravel driveway and its mulberry tree, left the sound of the chainsaw on hot July afternoons. Left the gas station on the edge of town, between the Home Diner and Eddy’s Café. Left it all because it was empty. Started smoking, knew it was bad for the heart, quit smoking.

Now she has returned to the empty… emptiness. It seems some human ghoul decided to demolish a few headstones in town and his had been among that group. Somebody had found her - cemetery personnel seem to be especially good at it - and insisted she come to repair the grave as she wanted it, as it had been before the vandalism. 

She has forced herself to return, to stand where the damage was done and remember that she does not remember what was inscribed on the stone slab. 

Stone: marble or granite? She doesn’t remember that either.

She had also forgotten that it was his birthday. She was forgetting him and thinking about herself, proving her inadequacy as his child. His voice had long ago faded and his outline was distilled to salient features like glasses or a flannel shirt or (once) the smell of cigarettes. There was the cough, too, but she brushed it away. 

She had stood in the same spot for so long it had begun to grow dark. She would have to contact the personnel the next day. It was so hard to leave, now that she had come. The lack of stone marker along with the fresh clods of earth even gave the impression that the plot (horrible coincidence of the word’s meanings) had been turned over in preparation for planting. It was an uncreative thought, and embarrassing. 

She hadn’t thought about needing to spend the night in town and the night was going to be warm. As a girl, she liked to curl up next to him to watch a movie. That possibility was long gone, but she had a jacket that could serve as a pillow. She curled up beside him.

And so Frost appeared, reminding and chiding us about our inattention to time. Underlining by making it the final line in the brief poem: Nothing gold can stay. However, sometimes it brings a person back.

She was not yet awake as the sun began to appear behind a distant row of pines. She had not planned to spend the night there. The only thing that worried her now was that anybody reading this story might think it’s poorly written, clichéd, prosaic. That people wouldn’t figure out it was all a parody of a woman fixated on the past. That it was all meant to be funny. All a joke. Maybe she could publish it.

Just as the sun’s golden glow spilled over into the day, a figure sat beside her and gave her a hug that was different, and better, than any of the hugs she remembered. It was time, not to make ends meet, but to tie up loose ends, which is not the same thing. Both phrases contain the same word, though: end.

Which is a good idea.