Fall Back by Kathy LeMay Fall, the season of my father. It wasnt the season he was born. It was the season he died. He was born on April 9th. Spring. I wish he had lived up to the his birth month. As a child, seeing him the last time in the hospital, nearly paralyzed from a brain tumor, an inoperable brain tumor. I imagined all sorts of scenarios. I imagined the phone call saying Hes up. Hes fine. Your father is going to be fine. He wants to see you. I imagined him showing up at my door in that car of his, the one without bucket seats. When he drove I was pressed up against his side, his right arm holding me tightly against him. Spring. To leap, burst forth, fly up; spread, grow. In my nine year-old heart, hope sprang. Eternal, they say. He wouldnt die. He couldnt. There were still Red Sox games to see. Spring training and Falls post-season. With any luck, post-season. And church on Sundays. Easter Sunday. Rebirth and renewal. I, though never liked spring. There were too many expectations in spring. After the thaw, you had to be bounding about under what felt like a different sun. Happy, cheerful, enthusiastic. You had to talk about blooming bulbs, it still being light out when you got out of work, outdoor time, outdoor picnics, outdoor everything. I like winter. Winter is silent. Winter in New England means you can hide without being questioned. No pressure to prance. Socially expected hibernation. When winter comes along I belonged. I can stand outside for endless hours at night surrounded by the quiet of the snow and trees. Winter and my dad are linked. They are forever quiet. I shy away from sun. I find it harsh, exposing. I take its not setting as a personal affront. That moment though when it sinks beneath the tree line, the clouds and sky begin to settle into themselves. Its their turn to grieve. When my father died, I was nine years old. Im forty four now. Every fall I am nine, a month into the new school year. That year, 1979, I dont remember September. I dont remember getting a new lunch box, new hand-me-down clothes, a new teacher, a new classroom, a new desk. I dont remember peanut butter toast and watery hot chocolate in the morning, walking to the bus stop, the bumpy ride to school, or standing in my grade line. I dont remember homeroom. I dont remember. Every September, I am nine. I dont remember but I feel. I feel my Dad when he was well, before this tumor took him away at the age of forty-two. I remember the feeling I would have when my sisters and I called him Dabby donuts as we watched him eat a dozen donuts at one sitting. I remember laughing that great beautiful childs laugh when he would pick up me and my sisters all at once and carry us around. Put us down, Dabby, hoping he never would. I remember the safety of falling asleep with him on my grandmothers knobby quilt and in the seat-belt free car rides between where he lived after the divorce and home. Its almost September now. The space between fall and winter. The Red Sox wont make it to post-season. Theres always next year. Im glad spring and summer have come and gone. I feel safe again in the cold and the dark. I feel my Dad slipping away. I look up and know that I can grieve with the sky and the clouds. They remember.
Posted on: Sat, 30 Aug 2014 18:55:53 +0000
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