1.30.15 The Beauty Before Him

        I would drive down the curving rutted dirt road, down the length of it, on summer days, through the forest and toward the pond, where I would find his log cabin, situated   in the woods just so, as I knew he planned so long ago, as he painstakingly designed and built it.

     I would get out of my car, and walk up to the shaded front porch, the Pine needles all about  for a lawn; the sounds of birds and wind through the Pines all one could want for music.

     "Around back" he'd call,  approaching vehicles easily detected.  I'd make my way around the small home beneath the canopy, to encounter such a view. Of Cranberry Pond far below, fresh and clean, gleaming in the thick afternoon heat, as wildlife quacked and called, splashed their landings and croaked their mating songs.

      There he would be, aged and wizened, a tall long man in his mid eighties, with checkered flannel shirt and well kept corduroys, a fine oval face with thoughtful pale grey eyes, that greeted me as he politely stood from his rocker on the back deck, and offered me a chair.

       We would sit, then.  Initially there is nothing to say, what with the stands of old Pine and Fir,  and the slender young trees further down the hill. 
       There would be a pitcher next to him with glasses, and he would pour for both of us, handing me the crisp cold drink.

     " I think most people have forgotten. Well water. How delicious it is. How  you never need anything else to drink." I said, joining him as he looked out over the beauty before us. The swish of the small breeze passing through the tops of the Pines far overhead. The scamper of some small creatures through the underbrush.

      Then, he'd turn to me and smile, saying "Oh, to hell and a hand basket, the world." And I'd laugh, and say "Socrates  wrote the same thing. Must be going on now for some time." He'd chuckle, sipping from his glass, now slick with condensation.

       Because then, I'd have to get down to it. The check in. The being a Case Manager from a Home Care Agency. That evaluated and offered a certain number of hours of help from Home Health Aides, back when the government had some wisdom about what was least costly and most wanted.

        But he knew... and he'd acquiesce, describing the progress of the Lung Cancer in his body. The changes to his abilities. The list; he could touch base with each pertinent factor for me,  and I'd write these down, until it was finished.

       I'd say " I'm sorry this is difficult. " , as we both looked out upon the  pond and the forest, living things moving and breathing and transforming.

       He'd told me before of his life. Of his wife, a beloved woman of laughter and song and jokes, affectionate and wise, who had gracefully filled his many days. Raised children with him. And while I listened to his stories during my monthly visits, I began to see who he was, this person five decades older than I. What his life had been for him. The years, the children, the move finally to this home he built, once the young ones were gone, and he could relish his time with her.

      This all pervading quiet and stillness that was as vital to him as breathing.  Knowing how blessed he was to be here, in this place, with his experiences, vibrant and rich, within him.

        And now, this illness. "All people become ill, you know." He reminded me, staving off  any expressions of empathy. And I understood. I understood that reining in my own sense of what this must be like was essential for him to manage his days. His present life.

        One month I arrived, and all was not well.

        It was winter now, the hill and ice challenging for many. The cabin warm and lit with low lamps and a crackling wood stove. The view out to the pond  enormous. Tracks of wildlife visible from wide back sliding glass door of the one room home. I could see  his tracks out to the deck and back;  snow brushed from the chairs .

        "They're moving in. Just called and told me their plans." He stated, looking straight at me. "There's nothing for it" he muttered, turning  away, taking refuge in the view out toward the sparkling iced pond far below.

         He'd signed over his home,  as his health  had declined ; he knew the time for a nursing home would come. But in signing it over , it seemed one daughter-in-law decided it truly was theirs. That it would be for the best,  taking care of him. And soon enough, visiting him at a facility. 
     They called to say they were  moving in with him.  Her husband was retiring.  The two of them had it all planned out.

        I felt like I'd been kicked in the gut. As if someone had snuck down to the rail yard in the deep night, and switched the tracks of his entire last chapter to a whole new destination, for the morning train to come upon, unawares.

         Without a word, he stood, pulling on his coat, so I grabbed mine, as he opened the sliding glass door and we walked out to the deck, each brushing newly fallen snow from the two chairs, cold and wet on our palms. We sat while still buttoning up, pressing hands into pockets then, on a cold cold  winter's day.

         "I'll be needing no more help; they'll arrive soon enough."

          I understood. With more income at the house, and people to help, there would be no need for Aides to come by and banter.  To greet him affectionately, discuss politics and deliver him tea outside, while they  sat with him for a quiet moment, sharing the treasure he had found here. Listening to his carefully told stories.

        " She'll be redecorating; they have an addition planned." 

        I sat beside him, willing my own grief to become smaller than his. To manage to stop time for just a bit, and have this small moment with him.

         I turned to him, knowing the necessary rules that afforded him respect . The privacy of all his own losses. I imagined the daughter-in-law coming and changing the stark loveliness of his home, of the things he and his wife had chosen to put on walls and have for furniture. The serenity of the place  now, with his mementoes and sustaining quiet life. I sat and I imagined and I turned myself about, just to be with him, in this.

     In his declining health and his evaporating place on earth . I prayed he could maintain his hold on all that filled him.

       He sat next to me, a mere glance that told  me his intention was the same. That held his  hello and goodbye; the  entirety of his grief,  and surrender.

      We sat for awhile longer, and drank in the freezing cold air. It began to drizzle lightly, the wet seeping down into our hair, coating my arms and his, whispering its secrets across the forest . Of  rain stippling over the waters;  of the poignant nature of peace.