The Night My Father Died

The Night My Father Died

Leland Williams

The night my father died the moon floated almost perfectly high above, lizard shaped clouds scooting hurriedly past, and the skinny motorcycles thrummed their sorry loud asses down North Division Street in their usual unapologetic fashion.

The night my father died the moon rode like a ghost in the sky.

The evening my father died the sun set like a bold design on a blue china plate, and I listened to Mexican canciones on a local effey-emey radio station as I drove streets under construction in my children's home town.

The night my father died I didn't look outside.

The night my father died I did not look outside; I did not look up at the stars or at the streetlight shadows.

The night my father died I did not look up when I opened the metal frame door to let my little old poodle out to pee but kept my eyes on her squatting at the edge of lawn and pavement.

The night my father died, his visiting North Carolina granddaughter let me brush her sweeping brown hair, the same hair my father had yanked in anger when she defiantly wouldn't give up her seat to him, lo these many years gone, because she was a fighter, and she enjoyed fighting him, and she said so the night he died.

The night my father died I spoke with my brother about gray areas, slippery slopes, dialysis success, and a living will and how he takes more chances with our mother, how he is more candid. "What the hell," he said.

The night my father died I flew to him in the bodiless dark, clearly saw his blue-checked hospital gown which matched his bright blue eyes, the eyes that saw nothing in this world, clearly felt his swollen, greenish feet, clearly heard his regular, machine pumped breath, smoothed his rough white hair upon his head, and smelled the sweet lily, steely sweat of his skin.

The night my father died he stopped trying to get to that jangling phone booth in the middle of a wide sunny meadow where the phone rings off the hook because my mother down on the earth plane, sitting next to his hospital bed is frantically calling him. "Hello? Hello?" she speaks into the empty line.

The night my father died the neighbors had a party; B-B-Q smell filled the air and cars parked everywhere.