God's fingers, chiseled, worn, and cracked, pierce the blunt backcountry sky 11,000 feet up. I am on granite feet in the primitive and pristine altitude, and I inhale and exhale—mindful of my breathing—and I find contentment, conclusion.
Relief.
The why.
I am here to say goodbye. This beautifully punishing backdrop, harsh and unbreakable, will do just fine—likely better than most. The terrain is unforgiving, intolerant of anything except respect and clarity of purpose. Death here, if it comes, would be honorable, and in perpetuity, I will exist, resting with the fractured stone faces, mountain goats, and mule deer, a fossil imprinted and cemented forever. But today, it offers a different type of ending.
Today, I am having coffee with my Dad. I set mugs at 12 and 6 and watch the steam quietly rise from each. I think of translucent clouds and super Moons as shadows fall, stretch, and ebb. It won’t be long now.
I have been walking for a lifetime, hobbling, some would say, on broken ankles, following another man's topographic map, a man I cherish. I have barreled down root-ridden switchbacks, stumbled over protruding rocks, fallen, clambered to my feet, bruised and bleeding, before regaining my equilibrium and scaling steep and insane ascents, breathing labored—my summit the yawning mouth of a churning volcano, spitting molten shrapnel from a bottomless abyss. I hunker and absorb as much pummeling as possible, skin and hair smoking, lungs fighting shutdown. Then I retreat down a gentle slope on a soft flowered path and pause barefoot in the high grass, mesmerized by the lifting fog until the honeybees tell me it is time to strap on my boots—the top of that mountain would only wait so long. It must be fed, so I go again and again obediently, my internal compass always true.
Alone on the trail in a random forest, my focused mind now drifts, and I follow my instincts to the kitchen—the kitchen from my youth. I sit. Everything looks in order. The sink is empty, and a red-striped dish towel is neatly folded on the counter. The gorilla-sized Frigidaire hums quietly. A wooden clothes rack in the corner sags under wet, fresh laundry. The rectangular kitchen table and matching yellow chairs are from an era before vintage became cool, when our scuffed and durable lives were tested through never-ending trial and error. How we lived would become sanitized, monetized, and marketed with gift cards, nostalgia on sale at Restoration Hardware and Calvin Klein. I knew my Dad would come, and it would be early. He was always up by 5; his absence in this world would never change that. Death may do us part, but old habits never die, and I am him now, my hand clamping a white ceramic mug, holding back a subterranean black pond, rich and abundant. I wake every morning before the birds, the lazy bastards.
At precisely five, the floor creaks, the black and white checkerboard linoleum under his feet. There is no need to turn. I know it’s him. I can smell the slate dust and dried sweat on his work pants. Scratched and worn, his boots are near the snapping and groaning iron radiator, work gloves, and wool hat warming on top. A pack of unfiltered Pall Malls, a book of matches from The Thirst Parlor, and a ceramic ashtray, glazed in gold, are at the ready. My brother made the ashtray in shop class. My Dad would quit smoking and drinking years later, both cold turkey. No need for any self-help bullshit. See it, do it, move on without fanfare or a pat on the back. That wood's not going to chop itself, he'd say.
I can’t linger anymore, Dad. He sits, and we are face-to-face. Finally.
I know. I’m surprised you hung in this long. You didn’t need to.
Yes, I did.
You look good. Your Mom says to remember to brown off the meatballs before you drop them into the sauce. And don’t let it stick. Keep the heat on low.
How’s Mom?
She only has good days now.
And you?
Don’t worry about me. Or much else, for that matter. You can lay all that uneasiness down, David. Be light on your feet. Take that weight off your back. Your horizon isn't as close as you think. There's sound footing ahead if you’re willing to see it. Go find it.
That's not what you did. You carried it. So, should I.
I know. But believe me, you don’t have to. Set it down. Set me down. What’s left over is all that you need. Trust your old man when he tells you that you are enough. You will never be lost because the better part of me is always with you. I saw you on that mountain, surrounded by a strong family of people who care about you. You looked tired. And happy, calm. I saw you sunning on that granite slab, so close I could almost grab your hand. You were that high up. I told your Uncle Bub about it, your Aunt Kate, Uncle Andy and Billy and Gary, your grandparents, all of them—we’re all together now. They’re so proud of you.
You saw that?
I'm always watching. I have plenty of time. I’m back to building things now. My hands are helpful again. My knees feel good, and my lungs are clear. I refinished that china cabinet that I never got around to. The fish are always biting here, mostly perch, a few Walleye—just like when we ice-fished on Lake St. Catherine each winter. Remember that?
I do. I can still smell that shanty. Kerosene, fried bologna sandwiches, and rum. The glacial air was iron on my tongue.
Do you remember the last thing I ever said to you?
Yes, you said to take care of Benjamin, work hard, and make sure to have some fun.
So do that. Focus on the necessities, the critical things.
Ok.
Promise?
Promise.
Goodbye, son.
Goodbye, Dad.