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my father, at ease. (person)
See all of my father, at ease.
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(
person
)
by
junkpile
Sun May 20 2001 at 21:57:28
He harasses me
awake at dawn
, poking me, assuring me I know
deep down
what a good idea this is, dropping an enthusiastic poodle on my stomach. I am fairly sure none of these constitute a genuine good idea (dawn? I must have been kidding, that was a funny joke) but I heave up off the couch. Ok, Dad. Ok ok ok.
The woman in the packing shed at the orchard smiles sleepily and gives us ice cream buckets and tells us the season has about a week left in it, so we can eat our fill. Better than letting em go to waste, she says. Dad and I attempt to look as if we hadn't already planned to pack our faces as soon as she turns her back.
We have eight acres of low green plants in rows with
muddy
channels between them. We have the sun beginning to show up, the sky is every pastel color. We have blackbirds who are not fighting over the fruit because there is so much of it. Everywhere you step there are half-eaten bird-discarded strawberries, strawberries dropped and trodden into the mud, overripe strawberries squashing themselves under their own pulpy weight, and millions, billions of strawberries at the point of perfect ripeness, waiting for us. There is no one else on these eight acres.
There are no sounds but birds and wind
and slurpy mud footsteps and the rustle of leaves as we hunt for the good ones.
We talk a little, but not much. We are intent. Crouching, I feel my hand close over what I know is the best strawberry ever grown, I know before I see it. I am right. It is immense and firm and the deepest red red. I shake off most of the dirt and shove the whole thing in my mouth. It is warm from the warmness of the ground. It is unreal. Juice runs down my neck and chin and I let it. I chew as slowly as I can, this is the best one of my life and I want to keep it going.
When I open my eyes, I see Dad has found this best breakfast too. Strawberry juice and the first of today's sunshine are all over his face. His eyes are closed. He looks very old in this light but he also looks at ease. I say Wouldn't this be a nice day to die.
He smiles, and he looks at me, and he looks at me, and he eats another strawberry. He says, Yes. Wouldn't it.
On the way
home
, floorboards crowded with berry buckets, it is still early and there is no one else driving this long straight country road. The sky is doing one of those rare things it can do to make you realize with a crash, if you have any heart at all, that life is just so fucking
much
. I mean the sky is very blue and full of ridiculously perfect fluffy white castle clouds and the sun is breaking a hole in that creamy cloud cover to send down golden beams over the green green land. I mean it is Hallmarked perfection, which is ok, because it is so perfect it fills us and we need nothing else.
So
I lift my eyes up
to it and I do not look at the road any more. I take my hands off the wheel. This is not as rash as it sounds; the road is straight, I would feel my tires going off the edge long before anything terrible happened. Still, it would be like my father to fuss or worry, but he doesn't, he is in the same moment too. We let the car take us
closer and closer to the source of all rays of light
. Flying down the asphalt with the windows down - warm rush of air, crickets - and I hold up my hands as if I am conducting or embracing the world, or vice versa.
We do not close our eyes.
When my father does die, I do not know if fate or good timing will allow him to be
standing in a strawberry field at dawn
. I do not know if
an angel will come to help
his particles
stream upward into a perfect sky
. I do not know if
he will have the taste of warm ripe fruit in his mouth.
I do not know how right I am about any of this. I hope I am very far away from being wrong.
We ate sidewalk chalk until dawn, stopping only to cheer on passers by
After searching for my mother's name for twenty years, I realized I also did not know my father's
Please clear the field; the game is not over
Our obsessions almost killed me, but now here we are, talking like normal human beings
There are monsters in my head, under my bed. Stop.
He will have the taste of warm ripe fruit in his mouth
Beautiful tangle of words
Here is my father, here is something I regret
Dawn was a lucky time to give birth
I am my father's daughter
A vindication of the authority of fathers
Closer and closer to the source of all rays of light
For my father, in the event he finds me
swimming toward a source of light
Mea Culpa
What it is that is not ending
Dream Log: September 1, 2002
October 15, 2001
Mallard Fillmore
Thinking too much
You have far too much time on your hands
The One-Room Schoolhouse
heart attack