Does love make things easier? Not always, sometimes harder. A heart torn between two places must choose love first. Not the selfish love of...self. The things or people chosen must grip the heart so violently, that self can no longer utter its feeble cry. The weekend of choice and I chose well.
A women's retreat taking place at church, few and far between, and my heart has been waiting patiently for soul nourishment. But he is dying in another state and that is enough. So I choose a long car ride with many small ones to spend a few hours with him.
These times are hard ones; watching life slowly slip away...watching her, watching his life slowly slip away. Hard questions need to be asked, decisions made, options discussed. Husband tells me to wait, for this may not be the place of a grandchild...but no one else will, so I must. The choleric in me will step forward and begin pressing through the hard ideas and the raw emotion; for it is better to be prepared, although death will still surprise.
Three of us, two generations, stand outside as a surprisingly gentle breeze blows through the run down farm. And talk is made in short bursts under cold sun, in the rubble of old chicken coop. It is still eerily missing from its concrete pedestal; blown down in a storm.
"He said we need to go to town and look about funeral arrangements, a casket and such..." and the old farm girl is silent at her words; unsure of what they mean, not wanting to give them voice in front of two granddaughters. The younger of us two, holds back her tears...and they fall silently. And I swallow, "Then you need to go Grandma." Because I would rather begin now, than after...in a raw rush, only thinking about the cold body waiting. Decisions now, while the life is still in him and sporadic laughs remain.
He called before we left our home, early...asking for a mole trap. He can no longer set the rusty device or check it, but he has not given up. There is still some farmer fight left in him. While we are there, he enjoys the sixteen leaves from his generational tree sitting before him; a new great grand-daughter wearing socks that look like shoes, granddaughters and grandsons playing with the old toys and grown granddaughters and husbands laughing with his youngest son. The room is full, and I watch him...take it all in, until he becomes too tired and he goes to lie down. But up again for supper and more merriment, although tempered and the little ones reminded to play softly inside. I hear after we left, after he filled his belly on my chicken and dumplings, I hear he wanted to play dominoes. And I can hear the familiar table talk, and see the worn hands fingering the pieces in anticipation of throwing the bones.
The hardest words heard this weekend..."we were going to plant some cedar trees out there, past the rabbit shed for a wind break, but now, with daddy like he is, well, it don't matter..." The slow realization revealed in the lost plans for more protection from wind, a constant on the plains. Years spent running, chasing the aging farm, no more. I can tell it pained her as we watched a train through the crack between shed and aged cedars. "But he's content..." And I realize, my heart was between two places and I chose the better. He remains between two places, but has not chosen. He may not get the chance; the timing not his own. One more hard talk to be had, and I will undertake it.
336
seeing a new baby cousin (2nd cousin)
337
laughter filling their house
338
huge pot of chicken and dumplings
339
talking in the kitchen while cooking
340
watching cousins play where she and I used to play
341
digging for buried treasure in the cellar
342
Grandma's confidences
343
my children singing for him and him grinning from ear to ear, savoring his requests
344
a visit to the candy store
345
Grandma showing oldest daughter how to sew
346
anticipation for next visit to sew a baby quilt together
347
doing dishes in her kitchen
348
husband fulfilling her "honey do's"
349
narrowly missing two skunks on the dark ride home
350
seeing deer on the ride up
