| Sunny Side Up June 11, 2003 �2003, Kathleen Gibson Sharing my father's pilgrimage From my days of skinned knees and stubbed toes, I accompanied my father on his pilgrimages back to the 'old home place' in Lost River, Saskatchewan. The last was two summers ago. We walked the gravel road toward the barn he played in as a child, past the fields he worked in as a young man. His gait was slow, his mood mellow. His cane tapped twice for every step he took. I waited for those words, the ones I'd heard since I had to reach high to grasp his hand. "Might be the last time I see the old place," he'd say, clearing his throat. "Think I'll go in the barn and look around." The abandoned barn shelters deer mice and swallows and old Fords now. On one visit, he climbed clear to the haymow. Poked his head through the small window near the sharp peak in the roof; framed his square white face in grey lumber. His boyish smile stretched wide, and he waved at me below. Little coward me, who wouldn't climb that ladder-not on your life. He would though. His daddy built that barn, and built it well. Step, tap tap, step, tap tap. Arm in arm, we approached, but he didn't turn in that day. A car came by, slowed, stopped. Unexpectedly, he accepted the offered ride up the road to my aunt's house. I stood shaking my head at his sudden departure. Feeling cheated. Wondering if I'd ever walk that road with my father again. I turned in instead. Stood quiet in the barn my grandfather built, its interior dim, hushed as a cathedral. The sun hurled golden spears through the cracks in the tired timber, so brilliant my eyes stung. So I shut them. Gave thanks for the Divine light cast on my path through the solid timbers of the man that is my father. He waited in my aunt's yard, watching and yoo-hoo-ing. When I reached him he tapped his cane twice and admitted to wondering if a wolf got me. We laughed, climbed the stairs together, and like so often before, I had the feeling of coming home. I took another walk with my father recently. He wanted me to see the cemetery he's chosen as his final resting place. I held his arm-steadied him over the rain-slicked pebbles on the path. We talked openly about death, and I felt great peace. One day, I thought, if our lives follow the natural course of things, death will stop for him and he'll go on without me. I'll be left standing, surprised that I have to complete the journey alone. And I'll turn in here, at this cemetery, where once he was, but now he's not. I'll say a prayer of thanks, then carry on. But if I know Dad, he'll be waiting up the road, in God's yard. Watching for my arrival, and praying that the wolves don't get me on the way. I'm coming, Dad. Count on it. You can respond to these words at [email protected] |
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