4
I miss my
Baby. He died a year before I found out about my cancer. I think he knew—he
always had such a sad expression on his droopy face. Those big black eyes bore
into me. They knew the secrets of my heart. They grieved those secrets. Poor,
loving dog.
Another of
life’s (or death’s) ironies: Baby died of cancer. The same faithful friend who
could spring into my arms without a moment’s hesitation could not even stand up
in his last days. At least Baby could still bark and move his head.
I know Baby
was just a dog, not a person. I understand that there’s a difference. But he
was my Baby. We had chosen each
other, were committed to each other. He would guard me from unknown dangers; I
would cuddle him into the night. I would love him if he could not protect me.
He would love me even if lacking the tender affection.
I felt like
I had betrayed him. I watched him like a hawk as the light of life slowly
escaped his eyes. As, over the course of months, he drank suffering down to its
deathly dregs. His eyes always had the look of pleading. Help me! You picked me
up from the earth. Don’t let me descend back to it.
Perhaps
that’s how my dad feels when he looks at me. He cried very little before my
cancer. Even less now. He never told me so, but I know he decided early on that
he would have to be strong for both of us. I don’t know what to think of that.
I have needed that cool wit and firm grasp, but should not some territory of
the heart be ceded to authentic grief? There is a fine line between
encouragement and empathy. He has tried.
Yet I hear
him in those rare times when he is not near. I hear his muffled cries and
desperate prayers: Why God? Why her and not me? It reminds me a bit of that
famous prayer from the cross, Why have you forsaken me? The old preacher used
to say that Jesus was forsaken so that those he loved would join him in
paradise. But why has God forsaken me?
This is the
question that gnaws at my dad. If he could, he too would bare the thorns and
nails so that he could bend back the bars of death and allow me to pass
through. But instead, he must watch the light of life pass from his baby’s
eyes. He is a willing sacrifice without an altar to lie upon.
I open my
eyes and find the weary, bloodshot eyes of my dad gazing upon me. I watch him
as he pours himself a rum and coke. That’s his favorite for nights like these.
The caffeine vivifies the senses. The rum numbs the heart. He suddenly catches
his breath and shoots a knowing look at me. My heart jumps. My body would also
if it could.
He quickly
strolls from the room and I hear bumping and scraping extending from his
bedroom, through the center hallway, out into the living room. He comes back a
moment later with an armful of paintings. He knows how I fixate on those
color-saturated landscapes.
The first
one he shows me is of a small lake. In the heart of the lake, a grove of trees
rest upon a small island. Neither the leaves nor the water are disturbed by
wind or rain. Between the island and shoreline, a small fishing boat with two
indistinct passengers sits upon the still water. Those blurry figures are me and
my dad.
And I am
transported to the scene. I feel the slight humidity in the air as I lean back
upon the side of the boat. Dad? (I can talk!) Dad, do you ever wonder what life
would have been like without the wind? He looks from the water to me. “I do. I have
lived for these moments of serenity with you. I would have taken the storms
myself.”
The scene
around me goes dark and I am back in my room. My dad is staring intently at me
and whispering (praying?). He sees that I have emerged from that picture and
shows me another. It is a small, lighted home amidst a dark, snowy night.
Through the window, you can faintly see a smiling old man and a decorated tree.
My feet
crunch on the snow and I near the doorway and gently knock. My dad,
rosy-cheeked and gleeful, turns the latch and welcomes me in. The room swims
with warmth and the mingled smells of pine and turkey engulf me. I look over at
the expansive tree and see a single ball hanging from its sturdiest branch. My
throat constricts and I choke out “Daddy.”
Dad, that
tree will look naked and empty without that ball there. What will you do in
coming years without it? “That ball is not coming down, my dear, nor will that
tree ever be moved. You may fade from this picture, but my love for you will
not fade. Love is strong as death.” And with that, the crackling fire in the
hearth is snuffed out.
I once
again lock eyes with my dad, but his cheeks are drawn pale and thin, and there
is not the least hint of laughter. He reads my return in my eyes and proceeds
to show a final, very normal painting: Two people, holding hands upon a
hillside, looking up at a starry sky. And I find myself upon a bed of lush
grass.
I whimper a
little. Daddy, I’m scared. The millions of stars are breathtaking when I can
feel your hand and hear you breathe. But what will happen when it’s just me and
the darkness with no hand to hold onto? “Kayla Joy, I am not giving you up. I
am giving you away. You will have another hand to take. Peace, little lamb.”
I drifted
off briefly. I awake and every point of my body is filled with pain and decay,
but I have peace. I hear the steady din of rain upon the roof and wind upon the
windows. My peace is invaded by a profound sense of loss. I miss the rain,
wind, and natural elements as I miss Baby. I feel them slipping away too.
My dad, on
cue, seems to read my unspoken thoughts, walks over to the window and opens it.
In a dramatic gesture, he also kicks out the screen. I feel small drops of rain
as the breeze carries them upon me. I notice several small branches of a tree
swinging back and forth according to nature’s music. A hundred small globes of
water hang from the fingers of the branches, dropping and breaking in turn.
“I bet you
enjoy that,” Papa chuckled as he sat back down and dabbed a few drops from my eyes.
I do not begrudge the world for its continued vitality as you might think. The
living curse the world for its callousness toward the dead. The dead do no such
thing. They cling to it, embrace it, love it.
The old
preacher once said that this world is not our home. We’re just passing through.
But one day, when all is made right, it will be our home. I sure hope he is
right.
