Watching

by practicalspactical

It is the fourth anniversary of my father’s death. My mother wanted us to be together, but we weren’t–we went to Lancaster, recreating to some degree a trip we took back then–early after the diagnosis–we went to a farm, verdant view, we didn’t know the name at the time, I played catch with a rock with a border collie–Margaux had stayed there when she was a child–the owner of the farm, a woman Margaux’s age, said maybe they had played together–goats climbed on Margaux’s back–

Four years later. My father is gone. My son is here. Three and and a quarter. Cute as a button. Do the math. My consolation prize. My wergild from the universe. No one deserves to be this lucky. 

At the end, we took him and my nieces to a place called Tiny town, an indoor miniature play-city for children in Lancaster–small castle, garage, post office, hospital, market, etc., etc., costumes, props, etc.–I watched from the sidelines, with the other parents, alternating between watching our children and looking at our phones–phones, a new phenomenon–the black mirror, the dancing narcissus–

And I thought–I thought–is it possible–is it possible–is it possible that my father watches me, going through this world, even as I watch my son, even as I see him pause, lost, alone, looking for me, until his eyes land on mine, and he smiles, safe, loved, watched–

My heart wrenches at the idea of it–to be able to watch, forever, or for the rest of my life–watch but never speak–watch, but not be seen–it breaks my heart, I don’t know why–perhaps because I don’t believe it, I never have, the very idea of it–so tragic—

And you realize–I realize as I type it–if I were a ghost, if he was a ghost–we would not persist forever–we would not want to–we would just want to haunt our wife, our children–and would leave when they did–standing vigil, till the last of our children passes too–and then we would pass–then we would resolve–like morning dew, dissolving in the light of the morning sun—