I'd been away from Chicago for about 30 years when I moved back a couple dozen months ago. It all made sense then. New job. My dad, a widower, in Chicago alone. A year later Dad died, and not long after, I lost the job. The twists and turns of fate? Who knows?
I got to be at my Dad's bedside when he passed into the big casino in the sky. I guess those quiet moments as he died was his gift to me. Most of the time, Dad just growled at me. Not hugely mean. More like he was saying, "Without your Mom, life just sucks." Kind of like martinis for him. In a restaurant, he'd always order a martini, "With an olive and a twist!" Heaven forbid if the guy or lady waiting on us asked, "Gin or vodka?" That would just about ruin the evening. He'd raise his blue eyes up at them and say, "Martinis are made with gin." That was his way of growling.
Watching him die was maybe the most peaceful time I had with him that whole year.
No more, "I said an olive and a twist!" No more, when I cooked something for him, "Almost as good as your Mom's." And the worst of all, no more raised eyebrows and that look that told me he thought I was surely half-cocked. In death, he just went. His eyes weren't open. He was barely breathing. Thank you, God! I couldn't have taken anymore of the lackluster sadness that had come into his staring blue then almost gray eyes. His eyes were closed. Never opened. No last words. Nothing. I didn't know what to do. I whisper sang, Morning Has Broken, which people think Cat Stevens wrote but really it's a very old hymn. Don't know why I sang that. But I did. And Dad died. Like that. As I sang Morning Has Broken.
My Dad spent much of his childhood in a little place called Pistakee Lake in Illinois. We still have a small fishing cottage there. It's not truly on the way to California but it's my first stop. Out of the sounds and stirrings of the big city to spending my first night of this journey at the cottage. When I walked into the kitchen the floor was covered in water. Something wrong with the water heater. Something is always wrong at the cottage. It's a given.
I ignored the water for the night. Drank New Zealand wine, ate cheese, an apple and, as a bath was probably not a good idea, fell off into the deep sleep of saying goodbye to Dad yet again. When I woke up this morning, I could watch the world over the lake awaken. The sun takes over. Without turning my head, I can lazy eye the change of day. There's a tree by the lake. It's my weather meter. If the tree is still, the lake will be calm. I love this tree. It's my Thika tree, like the flame trees of Kenya. From the vantage point I have, head settled on a pillow, no need to move, watching the sun up, and my tree, I could be anywhere. Here, there, or in Kenya. It's a superb feeling.
Morning has broken. It's 0630. I'm going to cleanup the water. Call the brothers about the latest something that is wrong at the cottage. Put on some Cat Stevens.
"Mine is the sunlight. Mine is the morning."
Say bye to Pistakee. To Dad one more time. Here's a pic of Dad BMD. That's 'before Mom died.'
Time to go.
Marcia's advice today: Stop and say goodbye.
Bye Dad. Bye Dad. Bye Dad. Loved you.
Marcia's 'listen to' song for today: Keep Me In Your Heart by Warren Zevon
No comments:
Post a Comment