One Last Gift

The phenomenon started shortly after I arrived at the old family farmhouse in Fredericksburg. At first I enjoyed the fresh country air and color-changing leaves of fall, but restful sleep now eluded me. Again, as the last night before, I heard the faint and familiar melody of a violin being played from another room. Beautiful sound floated down the hall until it found its way to me. But it couldn’t be his playing. Dad had passed away only two weeks ago and hadn’t played for several years before that.

Two empty-nesters in a quiet house. They were doing okay, but what about now? My sister and I agreed to stay after the funeral until the home-care nurse could move in. I knew some of dad’s old stuff, like his violin, were stored in the finished attic space at the top of the stairs. After the haunting melody ceased, I felt compelled to see if I could find out where it was coming from.

After quietly making my way up the steep and long wooden stairway, I opened the attic door. A shot of cold air raced from the opening and washed around me. Shuddering, I stepped inside and flicked on the light to reveal a large and lonely space. The first thing I noticed was dad’s violin case resting on a nearby shelf. The coating of dust told me that the Stradivarius hadn’t been disturbed for quite some time. Dad’s fingers had become too arthritic to continue. Still, the music he would write and perform had always lingered among my happier memories.

Across the room and sitting high on another shelf, I spied dad’s old manual typewriter. He mostly used it for hammering out the lyrics to songs he would write. Like most everything else up here, it was laid aside at some point and never picked up again. Dwelling for a moment on some of the wonderful music he would create, I could almost hear him sing while playing a sweet violin melody. I came back to reality with a jolt when the sound of a ‘snick, snick, snick’ echoed from the typewriter above.

I just about jumped out of my skin at the unmistakable sound of its keys being struck. Couldn’t be. A chill shot down my spine. I looked up at the machine to spy a sheet of paper sticking out from the rollers. There were words on that page and I had to see what they said. Finding the ladder, I repositioned it so I could reach the shelf. The ladder creaked when I went up, and groaned on the way back down with the dust laden machine held tightly to my chest. 

After easing the heavy machine down to an old wooden table, I turned the roller to reveal a typed note. And it was addressed to me. And at the bottom there, the last three letters struck onto the page spelled ‘Dad’. First the sound of his violin, now the typewriter. Maybe some joke he set up long beforehand? He was the consummate prankster, always pulling fast ones on unsuspecting friends and family. But this. 

The full note read:

“Son. I know things have been difficult lately, but I want to give your mother one last gift. Something she can hold on to during this trying time. But you must leave at once. Take the Chancellorsville Trail and walk it until you find it. There can be no delay. Go now. And always remember that I love you. Dad”

Filled with a head full of astonishment and sadness, I hurried downstairs. My parent’s stainless steel percolator sat on the counter. I filled it with fresh coffee grounds, plugged it in, then called my wife.

“Hello?”

“Hi hon,” she said. “How’s it going over there?”

“Fine. Listen. You know how you’re always telling me that spirits, you know, ghosts, are real?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, I’m thinking maybe I should believe you now.”

“What happened?”

“It’s dad. I think he’s trying to communicate with me from beyond. I found a note addressed to me inside his old typewriter.”

“Okay. An old note then?”

“No. It’s a recent note. Just like he wrote it today. And before this I’ve been hearing him play the violin.”

“The what? Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I think so. Look, there’s something I gotta do. Love you.”

After I downed a quick cup of coffee, mom entered the kitchen and sat next to me. I poured a fresh cup and handed it over to her.

She took a sip and smiled. “Black and bitter. Just how he liked it.”

I asked if she remembered the last time that dad had used the typewriter. 

“Years,” she replied.

“I’m going out to Chancellorsville,” I said. “You know, the trail?”

“Oh yes. That’s where your father and I first met. Did you know that?” She softly repeated his name a few times, then shut down to further conversation. The hurt from loss being visible on her face. 

I had to do as dad requested. Even if it was a practical joke from years gone past. After calling my sister to ask if she could stop by, I pulled up the map on my phone. The wooded trail wasn’t too far. A few minutes later, my sister arrived and agreed to sit with mom while I was gone. Grabbing a to-go cup of more broiling black liquid, I left the house and got into my car.

Cruising through the Virginia morning mist, I wondered what the hell I was doing. Chasing some chance of my late father sending a message from the great beyond? Ridiculous. But I just couldn’t get the note out of my head. So specific to the recent heartache we all felt.

Leaving the car for the forest, I found the trail through entangled trees. After several minutes, I halted and questioned my sanity, again, when a sudden and cool breeze scattered leaves all around me. In their rustling motion, I swear I heard dad’s voice, “Keep going.”

I started again until coming around a narrow bend in the trail to witness quite a surprise. A small dog sat in the middle of the path before me. It was a pug, wrapped in a blanket of light blue. Mom’s favorite color. The little creature looked like a tiny and oh so cute babushka.

I approached the animal carefully, but it didn’t seem afraid. I checked for tags and found one, but all it had were the words “One Last Gift.” Well, this confirmed it. Dad had indeed had some unfinished business. It may not be some world-changing mission, but it was no less important where mom was concerned. And I now remembered that he had mentioned maybe getting a dog before he died.

I scooped up the little guy. No way I was leaving him behind and all alone. The happy little beast licked my face, letting me know that somehow we both played our parts. Holding the precious gift securely against my chest on the drive back to the house, I came to understand something about my father. 

Life is short and never perfect, but he did have a clue on how to get through it all. Beautiful music, strong coffee, and the company of a loving family were all it took. And that family would now include one last gift from beyond. Snuggled in a blanket, and ready for a new home.