Holding shadows

On the bedside table in the guest room at my parents' house is a framed photo of my father in a Santa Claus hat. The day he died, I went home to pack my clothes so that I could stay at my mother's house and I grabbed that photo off my dresser and tossed it in the suitcase. I took the photo about ten years ago at our Christmas party. I've always liked the way he looks in the picture, his head slightly turned to me, a smile on his face, his blue eyes looking right at me.

Whenever I think about bringing the photo back home, I can't bring myself to do so. On the nights I stay at my Mom's house, I like having it there beside me. I'm comforted by his presence, instilling it with meaning and purpose as if he were watching over me through the portal of his photo.

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I do not know when she began her journey, nor do I know how long she'll travel or what path she'll take but I do know that my mother has taken her first steps towards him and away from us.

Her words tumble in shapeless sounds without meaning. Her eyes are cautious and filled with fear and need. Her body defies her will.

This is personal. And devastating. Something goes on here, something that must be guarded and we all feel the need to be protective. It is also quiet and with the same feeling of watching a child sleep, a mixture of peace and urgency hover in the room. Hush the phone, keep the lights low, let her rest.

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Last night I sat in her driveway and looked at the bright moon through the branches of the tall Pine trees in the front yard. I felt a warm breeze circle my shoulders and closed my eyes and took a slow breath. Above me, the leaves were restless.

Later, with my suitcase unpacked, and Cheyenne's water bowl filled, I crawled into bed exhausted. Reaching to turn out the light, I paused to look at my father on the bedside table. His eyes looked back into mine. Much was said, but no words were spoken.