Wade In The River

A year ago tonight I drove to my sister's house in the dark to see my father for the last time.  He lay quietly on his deathbed, his chin resting on his chest as his lungs heaved, sucking in the last dregs of life, his eyes closed to this world. His hands that for so many years never sat idle, rested by his sides.

I studied him lying there, tried to commit to memory every freckle and age spot, every scar from surgeries or yard work or factory mishaps.  I touched his skin, rough, leathery from sun exposure and calloused from too many days of hard work.  I stroked his hair, so thin but still the slightest bit red, I
touched his rough bearded cheek and remembered how when I was a little girl he would chase me down to rub his stubble against my cheek.  He called it giving me a bearding.  I hated it and I loved it.

A year ago I knew I why I stood there beside him as he drifted away from us.  All my life my father kept my feet planted on the ground.  Oh, my head stayed in the clouds plenty, but if not for him I might have long-ago lost my footing.

He took me fishing on the Broad River one weekend.  A girl of fifteen I thought myself a fine connoisseur of life.  I kept my journals and read poetry.  I only listened to the deepest lyrics, strove to impress my peers.  I remember riding in his truck, windows down, canoe strapped to the top, listening to a staticky  Paul Harvey on A.M. radio.  My hair slapped my face hard until I finally found a string on the floor at my feet and tied it back out of my way. We hummed tunes together, our arms getting sunburned as we hung them out the windows.

We fished all day standing on slippery river rocks, our canoe tied to Daddy's belt loop, our string of catfish tied to the canoe.  At some point when neither of us were paying attention our string of catfish somehow came loose and before we could even react, they were floating away with the swift current of the river.

"Damn it!" He said.  "There goes our supper!"

"And your blue cat" I reminded him.

"Gooooood Night!" He said,  in anguish over the loss.

We were tired and hungry and had brought nothing with us to eat besides tartar sauce and eggs for the next morning.

"Well, you better catch some more fish, Hester, if you want to eat supper tonight!" He laughed that jolly laugh only he could conjure at such a moment, his whole face and neck turning bright red.  He always called me Hester when he was messing around with me.

My legs were tired.  My feet were cramping from staying tensed on the slick rocks all day, but we kept fishing until we had another stringer-full of supper.

Back ashore, I waded along the riverbank while he cleaned fish.  He tossed me a swim bladder from one of the catfish. "Here's you a balloon to play with." He teased.

I picked it up, fascinated.  "What is it?" I asked.

"That's an air pocket." he explained.  "It lets the fish know how deep he can go in the water.  Helps him swim."

Hmmm, I never knew fish had those.

We smelled of river mud and fish guts as Daddy fired up the camp stove and dredged our catfish in flour and cornmeal, then dropped them into the hot oil bubbling in the cast iron skillet.  I don't even know how many fish we ate that night, but to this day I believe it was the best meal I ever had in my whole life.  Maybe it tasted so good because I was so hungry, or maybe it tasted good because Daddy cooked it.  Either way, I don't think it'll ever be beat.

We slept under the clear night sky on plastic lounge chairs that clicked into place.  Cool air from the river blew over us.  The stars were so bright I thought at one moment I could reach out and touch them.  I heard my daddy snoring as I rolled up in my blanket, still feeling the rush of the river against my legs and drifted off to sleep.

Of all the things he gave me, that weekend at the river stuck so near me all these years, it seems as if it happened just yesterday.

But time marched on, those sweet moments as irretrievable as that stringer full of catfish that the river swept away.  I often wish to hold those moments close again, long for another truck ride with the windows down, another day of rowing against the current, another day of slipping across those rocks to find the perfect spot to cast my line. I yearn to look over my shoulder and see if he's watching me, if he's proud of me for casting so well.

That whole weekend rushed through my mind as I stood by his bed that night, my hand over his hand, feeling his warmth, his life connect with mine.  He was me, and I was him and in so many ways I hope I still am.

My sister left the room.  Tired and emotionally wrung out, she needed a moment to herself and I was grateful for a moment alone with my father.  I leaned close to his ear, touched his hair, smelled his skin.

"My sweet daddy." I said in his ear.  "I'm so glad you are mine.  I'm so thankful God gave me to you."

I didn't know if he could hear me.  I hoped he could.  "I love you. Goodnight, Daddy."

I kissed his cheek and rested my forehead against his, put my hand on his chest and felt the rise and fall of his breathing, the still steady thump of his heart.  I wanted to stay there beside him but I had to go.  My boy was too small, too worried and confused by it all and I knew my daddy would want me to comfort him.

I left that room knowing that was the last time I would say goodnight to my daddy.

Two years before, I left my mom lying on her own death bed.  I kissed her forehead and said, "Ill see you later, Mama.  I love you."  I didn't know for sure I'd see her again and I didn't.  I wish so often that I had stayed with her a little longer that day.

You live your entire life knowing someday you'll say goodbye to your parents.  With so much time to prepare, you expect to handle it well.  I cannot express how hard it is to grow so distant from them with every year that passes.  The places they occupied in my life will remain vacant for the rest of my days, with only the memories we made holding the space inside me where they dwell.

Live well.  Wade in the rivers of life with the ones you love.  Teach them tenacity and strength; enlighten them on things they might otherwise never learn.  Let the ones you love know you love them, tell them, show them, work hard for them.

Someday, after the last goodnight is said, they will hold your place in this world.  They will pass you on to the next generations, they will live a life that is full and complete because you gave yourself so freely.

I will never stop missing my folks.  I will forever revel in the memories we made together--both the good and the bad, for it is a fine blending of the two that make life the bitter sweet journey it is meant to be.

A year ago I drove home in the dark, tears streaking my face.  My boy sat silently beside me, sad, worried, not ready to lose his Papa.  We shared those moments of grief along the dark back roads of Pickens county; roads I traveled with my daddy for as long as I could recall.

The roads remain, for the most part, the same; but I, I am forever changed.