My Father's Eyes, Part II

A little over a year ago, I had an idea for a story and I posted the intro. Since then, it has incubated in my subconscious because I'm not sure exactly where it will go or how it will unfold. It's a narrative that's quietly waiting to be played out, but like I said, I don't yet know where it's going, and I'm not sure when or how it will end. The tale is unfolding in thoroughly unpredictable ways. It could be another year before the next installment reveals itself, or I could finish it tomorrow. What I do see is a Hemingway touch, with a minimal amount of setting, allowing the story itself to take the spotlight. Before you read this installment, please read the story's opening. Like I said, I don't know where this will lead, but maybe if you have some suggestions... maybe questions about the relationship with between the characters... whatever.

“You know Dad, if you wanted me to visit, you could have just asked. You didn’t have to get all sick on me,” I said, as my presence registered with him. I’ve always been a little cynical, and a bit of a smart-ass, so using humor to mask uncomfortable situations has long been second nature to me. But as soon as I uttered the greeting, my words were tinged with the regret of inadequacy. “How are you doing, Dad? Are you going to be okay,” I finished?

“I’m alive for now, and the fact that you’re here now is good enough. Look, boy… son… I don’t want to die, but if it’s going to happen I guess I’m as ready as I can be.” Taking a moment to let the words sink in, I pondered their implication and considered my response. Dad’s always been a stoic figure – a product of the proverbial Greatest Generation who was raised to keep his feelings to himself and always remember his role as the foundation of the family. Mom was the nurturer, and Dad was the bedrock, the source of strength, and the driving force.

His statement had a lot of implications. He knew that he may not be long for this world, but he still had the strength of spirit to know his place – to tell it like it is, to prepare me for what may come, but also to remind me that I’m his son and, in his own understated way to drive home how pleased he was to see me.

“Well Dad,” I responded, “I don’t want you do go, but if it’s going to happen, I guess I’m as ready as I can be.” I am my father’s son, I thought as my reply touched my lips.

They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. As I gazed at my emaciated father’s frame, I could have been dying, because my life passed through my mind in an instant. But it wasn’t my entire life… the memories flickering in my consciousness were limited to time shared with Dad… holding his hand as he took me to the park. I still see the vision through the eyes of a child. My small hand barely wrapped around his index finger, his face a mere silhouette attached to his body, outlined by the afternoon sun… the pain and confusion I suffered the first time he spanked me… the pride I experienced when he helped me land my first fish… the calming effect he had teaching me to drive… it was all there… the anger… the love… the pride… the pain… and today.