Subsided Water

It had been my father’s small ‘get-away’ – an odd building only 40 yards from the cottage itself. Its main components: a half bath with a flushable toilet (although it flushed into an outhouse style septic hole beneath the floor), a storage space with a work bench and a porch. The roof largely served as an overhang – a sort of front porch (without a house behind it.). My father retreated there to smoke, to listen to classical music, to sort through his tools, to sit on the swing and do his daily crossword and, of course, go to the bathroom - newspaper in hand. He had constructed a space that looked onto the rest of the property and had a view of the creek. The space, like he had always been, was slightly apart and in only several singular ways, practical.

I hadn’t considered the possibility of falling at all until I felt the roof succumb slightly to my weight. Although I avoided the edges, I thought more about the possibility of falling through than falling off. I tacked down a silver tarp over the area that had, from the inside, shown the worst signs of leakage. I nailed into the overhang and into the fascia. It was all I could invest in the time I had. Come spring, perhaps, I’d do it right – or perhaps some one else would. I took a picture of it – I’m not sure why.

Two weeks later the tarp stayed in place as the flood-water rushed just below it - within inches of the soffit. The contents were swept away – the porcelain water fountain my father installed ripped from the wall and his porch-swing torn from its chains. I took another picture and until I saw it later, I hadn’t realized how much cleaner it looked.

60 over 24

The movement from the wheelchair to the toilet depleted his strength entirely. He struggled to breathe normally and leaned forward, forearms on his knees, until he gained composure. “I don’t know if I can pull myself out of it this time.” he said. I can’t remember what I said. I hope it doesn’t matter.

Two weeks later, I laid on the couch several feet the temporarily placed bed in the living room. The light from above the kitchen stove scumbled over the contents of the two rooms. Every time he stirred I awoke fully - repeatedly.

The next day at 9:34AM I emailed his blood pressure to myself with my iPhone – I’m not certain why I did this but I found it days later among previously dismissed communications. “60 over 24”

Five hours later, tired from the night before, I closed the door and laid diagonally on my parents’ bed – atop the floral comforter. I like to think I faded to sleep with my father’s fade to death. It was quiet and for both of us, perception slipped away from that perceived.

His death nearly lacked the character of an 'event.' It was just one moment moving to the next - and moving so smoothly that it really could have been any other moment at all. And that is what has changed me most – the striking similarity between that moment and any other since.

Nathaniel woke me. He put his hand on my calf that jutted over the bed’s edge. He shook me slightly and I turned. “He just passed.” he said.

Later he said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what words to use.”

His words were perfect and I couldn’t imagine a better person to tell me them. Nathaniel was my older sister’s first child – the first grandchild. I was eleven or twelve years old when he was born and all my life I’ve associated him with youth and potential and life pulled to a new generation.

Years Earlier

Her hand raised and touched her face. Her fingertips contacted her cheek and paused there - her flesh gave to the slight pressure. It was not a gesture that supported an expression and it had no decipherable intent. Although it looked like a touch to affirm her own presence – her own solidity - her eyes showed no manner of recognition or relief – no affirmation, no contradiction.

The movement was prompted by the spark of a single synapse – the first that would have, years earlier, set off the series necessary to generate the movement that bore meaning – a slight rub in response to a near imperceptible irritant on her cheek just below her right eye. She would have, years earlier, moved gracefully to the next function afforded her by mobility – a push of her glasses up the bridge of her nose, a brush of a hair from her forehead or a settling to her lap and a touch that recognized the insignificant texture of her polyester pants. Instead her hand moved down and away from her face and stopped for a long moment just inside her peripheral vision, and then it vanished. image source