Happy Father's Day
My
dad fought Congestive Heart Failure bravely and with tenacity. Eight years after his diagnosis, he died at
age 86. I believe he would not have lived that long if it were not for his
strong will.
A year before he passed, he grudgingly went to the hospital. The doctor was very straight forward and told him she could give him another year. And, he did live another year, almost to the day.
He was in the hospital in July. In October, he began bugging me to take him to Republic, Missouri, to try to find the place where his parents had built their home. His parents married in 1910, and my dad arrived in 1912, eight months before his dad died of Tuberculosis.
At the end of October, I caved in and agreed to take him to Missouri. I thought the cooler weather was a better choice for both of us walking through the woods.
I was terrified of taking him and walking up and down hills and through woods. I had no idea how difficult it would be, and at one point, I thought I would have to carry him.
It
was up and down hills and slopes and through trees and brambles and across a
creek.
Finally, at the top of one of the hills, he spotted three stacks of rocks. It was a land marker. He stopped and touched it and began to cry, then turned and began walking through thick trees.
He
knew where he was, and in the over-grown area, we saw remnants of a concrete a slab that was nearly all crumbled away.
He sat down in the middle and touched every inch of the disintegrating concrete and staring into his memories.
Although he never knew
his father, I could see the recognition of what he had been told and probably
memories that flowed through his veins, uniting him with his past.
I listened to stories he had never told before, showed me where they got their water, and how. Then he pointed into the distance of where his uncle lived.
The uncle who trudged through snow, waist deep, to help with his birth. A birth that nearly killed his mother and him too
The end was looming in and out of our thoughts.
He needed to visit his beginnings.
And, so, my dad asked if I would take him to
his birthplace.
His memories brought us to the edge
of his foundation.
Forgotten by many, but never by him.
His search for a crumbling concrete slab
took us up and down hills thick with
brambles and rocks that made walking difficult.
And, treacherous for him and his heart.
A marker of stacked rocks made him cry.
He turned toward a thicker portion of trees
and walked straight to the remnants of
his birthplace.
I thought I might have to carry his frail body,
but the adrenaline surged him forward.
I watched him touch, sit and revel in the crumbles,
the rocks and the dirt of
his birthplace
I was silent
waiting for him.
He pointed, he spoke, he taught,
filling my heart with stories he shared
for the first time.
His face showed less color, and he looked back
for the last time.
He gasped and struggled back down the hill
for the completion of our journey
and the beginning of his next.
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