The song came out months later. And the truck is long gone. But I suppose since his is the most recent death in my life, the song would naturally remind me of him.
The white truck, the one in which he taught me to drive. The late model Ford with 4 in the floor, and my scrawny arms too weak to pull it. My grandmother laughing at the site of her descendent jumping over the bumps in the well tilled field.
And time passes, and keeps passing. My brother calls. And within a few hours, I'm taking my mother on a road trip. We've arranged to exchange her like a package, he gets her to point B, I take her on to point A.
He didn't recognize me. I honestly had the impression he didn't recognize anyone in the room. But his personality, his jovial spirit, shone through and he talked to people like he was genuinely glad to see them. He was up occasionally when we arrived. He couldn't walk far, but he walked.
I knew they had married before she was out of high school, he having obtained my grandfather's permission. He would always speak highly of my grandparents, in much the same way that people always speak highly of my uncle. And they would live out their lives together. But I hadn't considered the reality - they grew up in the same small town. They had walked to school together 30 something years before I was even born. There was never a time in their lives when they did not know each other.
He passed away on Monday before Thanksgiving. My grief somewhat abated by the knowledge that, as an adult, I made conscious decisions to see them, to visit them, to drive to their house and spend the weekend with them.
He may not have recognized me the weekend he died. But while he lived, he knew that I loved him.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment