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Seasons Beckoned Unto Night
Three hundred eighty two days passed while I paused to once again allow the world back into my life. Oh, consciously I would have denied my feelings. A fifty-year-old man doesn’t stop functioning because he loses his father. Sure, there are those times when the still of night or pang of conscience disrupts my routine and hurls me down the slope of despondency towards the pits of despair. Usually, I find a way to hang by my knuckles on the ledge of hope until reason comes to rescue me. That’s just what you do… nothing is served by letting go. If I didn’t let go in Vietnam, I’m damned sure not going to let go over a man who spent eighty years on the planet.
Besides, I always seem to manage to find a rationale for my ambivalence. My friends and family had lots of available bromides… ‘He’s in a better place’ or ‘Finally, he can be with Betty’ or even ‘Jim wouldn’t want us to be sad’. Plus, I’ve managed to provide a few of my own; ‘Why wouldn’t you listen to reason?’ or ‘How do you feel about that three-pack-a-day habit, now, Dad?’ or even ‘What a horrible way to die’.
Sometimes, though, I just see his face. And it’s not the old-man face, either. It’s the 1945 version, the smiling rake with the wavy black hair and slightly receding hairline… the handsome, devil-may-care soldier who stole my mother’s heart. It’s the face of a man who’s just come back from the war, battle ribbons adorning his Army dress uniform and beer-powered legs willing to dance the night away. Plus, he has that damned Kirk Douglas cleft-chin that he refused to pass along to me. Truthfully, I’ve always felt that he was glad he didn’t, too. I’ve always perceived it to be his way of telling me how disappointed he was in me… how I fell short of expectations.
Three hundred eighty two days passed until I stood in Section 7, Row 6 of Fort Logan National Cemetery, and first saw the white marble stone with the words:
James C. Church
Specialist 1st Class
US Army, WWII Pacific Theater
November 14, 1920 - March 20, 2001
Admiring the quality of the marker, I bent down and allowed my hands to run along the edges, enjoying the military smoothness of the sharp, contrite edges.
“I didn’t think you’d come.”
I looked over my shoulder, but saw nothing. Now convinced that I’d taken leave of my senses, panic overtook me, and I hurried back to the curb where my car was parked. There, my father stood, resplendent in the suit we’d buried him in.
“Why don’t we sit inside,” he said. “I think it’s time we had a talk.”
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