2003 Eulogy

It’s Sunday. I am 9. I am once again trailing after my father in Sears. In the hardware department. “Okay? “ He says, as if ready to leave. He’s not ready. We stop again. My Sundays are filled with trips to hold jigsaws and nails.

It’s autumn. The leaves are their brightest gold and he rakes while I fill up wheelbarrows with pungent, soft fallen apples. We share the yard in silence, my father gathering leaves, me wishing I could be invisible.

His office.  I spin on his stool on abandoned Saturdays. I dig through the hygienist’s ring boxes and claim the jewels for myself. We hang out the window together and watch the parade pass by.  We call home, promising to leave soon.

I sit in the passenger seat of the plane, holding his camera tight. Please, don’t take pictures, please don’t take your eyes off the road of clouds. I quietly slip my fingers onto the wheel as if I could right the plane, not talking to him.  Just looking out the window as we fly over our house and tip our wings.

It is nighttime. I’m in my canopy bed. He sings me lullabies. He checks my pulse on feverish nights, his sleepy breathing filling my dreamless space with sound.  Until I turn heavy he tosses me in bed.

I cannot sleep.  I slip quietly into his room and lie down on the edge of his bed, one foot still on the floor in case I’m asked to leave.  He makes room for me.  I watch the orange numbers turn their lonely night hours. “Goodnight, dear,” he says to me. I go back to my room when the nightmares have left.

It is my first car.  My father and I drive for 700 miles to move me into my college home.  We marvel at needing to fill the tank only once.  We stay in a hotel in New Jersey.  We eat together, just us two.  He sleeps in my new bed and we speed in unmoving traffic to the airport the next day.

It’s February.  He sighs and smiles as my children run along the path in front of him, their towels like capes around their heroic shoulders.  Just to watch them.

It is three days after Thanksgiving, the contractions are frequent.  He makes it to the hospital even before I do, walking the hallways with me while carrying his raincoat over his arm.  “It might be a while,” I say.  “Why are you here so early?” “Where else would I be?”

It is time. I cannot sleep.  He lies in bed in his own dreams, his breathing filling the room with its yearning. I lie down on the edge of his bed, one foot still on the floor. He makes room for me.  “Goodnight, dear,” he says to me. Goodnight, Dad.