Saturday, February 03, 2007

On the eve of my memory

The drive to the cabin can take over two hours, or a little under two hours. Depends on which route you take out of Houston, and how many stops you make along the way. We got a late start out of town this morning and we took the long way, but I wonder if we left any earlier would we have seen the hawks along the Farm Roads. Seven hawks. Regal and rare.

Hawk Winter Trees

I came down here to feel close to my father, to pass through this weekend in a place where he used to spend much of his time, to a place where I can still see him standing in the kitchen, or sitting in his chair. I came here to spend my weekend with him in the way I feel best - surrounded by the nature he loved. I came here to feel him in my heart while I put my feet in the grass and gazed through the winter trees, leafless and cold, revealing a broader view of the unknowing sky.

As darkness pulled its blanket over the light of the day, a fiery strip of orange hummed like an electric riptide unzipping the blue. In the woods across from the house, an owl called out, a young hawk circled. Cheyenne chased an Armadillo. All else was quiet and still. That's what I wanted from today. The earth's sounds but otherwise the odd comfort of winter quiet.

It was the kind of day he would have loved. He would have paused on the back porch, set his mighty hands on the wooden rail and observed the land, the sky, the owl and the hawk. He would have enjoyed the chill in the air and he would have done as I did - take a deep breath, take in the moment, feel at peace.

Standing at the rail as I was, and thinking about him as I was, I could have cried but instead allowed the smile that I was also feeling. Because as much as I miss him and as much as my heart aches, I know that this apple did not fall far from his tree. Seeing a day like today, a day that he would have relished in, and to live it while feeling him in my heart, so that in a way that transends the distance we are for the moment together again, that's the kind of good feeling that I've learned to take.

3 comments:

Linda@VS said...

Alison, I didn't read this entry until after I commented on your last two posts. What you've written here is exactly what I was trying to tell you in response to your February 1st entry. Healing is a slow process, but by golly, I think you've got the hang of it.

Anonymous said...

What a wonderful tribute you've written to your father. I'm glad you could smile.

Anonymous said...

i think its a testament to the healing youve gone thorugh that you could smile. your dad sounds like the kinda guy i would have liked to have met in my life.