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Father's Touch
By
Steven H. Short
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A hundred-year-old cottonwood tree stands alone atop a small rolling hill. Its trunk reaches skyward, straining to hold the fingerlike wooden limbs and green leaves that rustle in the warm summer breeze. The golden color of a large mature wheat field surrounds its base.
As I approach I see an old man sitting in the shade that’s provided by the trees canopy. I notice the outline of his baldhead and his large broad shoulders.
As I approach, I speak softly so as not to scare him, “A little warm out today, huh Pop?”
He does not turn to look at me. “Sweat the Falstaff right out of ya.” He replies.
I see his tan cotton shirt is unbuttoned, exposing the gray strings of hair against his tan chest. His pants are a light shade of tan and his tennis shoes are slightly soiled. A thin wheat stem sticks out from his mouth as he leans against the course bark of the tree, his deep brown eyes staring straight forward.
I sit down next to him and grab the nearest wheat stock and yank at the stem, separating it from its base. Like the old man, I stick the straw into my mouth and stare out at the open land. I notice the changing golden texture as a light wind sprays across the field. A changing tapestry of golden hues pushes a rush of serenity through my body.
“I’ve missed you.” I said, not taking my eyes off the field.
“And I’ve missed you." Was his reply, "How ya been?” He takes his hand from his lap and puts it on my knee.
“I have a feeling you already know how I’ve been.” I answer.
We turn our heads toward each other and I see a small smile underneath his white bearded face.
“You’ve had some troubled times lately. You’re not sure about yourself or your direction“
He lifts his hand up an pulls the long wheat stem from his mouth, "I’ve been there myself," he adds.
“You? I always thought you had it all together, Pop.” I said, calling him by the same name he called his father. “Through out my whole life you were always strong and confident, consistent. I never saw you down and depressed. “
“Well, sometimes that’s the role of a father. We have to fake it. My father used to tell me to never let anyone see you cry, if you do, it shows you’re weak. But trust me, there were many times I cried, you just never saw it.”
“Well, I guess I’m a weak man, because I’ve cried a lot. I even cry at weddings of people I don’t know!” I said.
We both laugh.
“When I say I’ve missed you, I really mean I’ve missed you." I continued on, " I took our time together for granted. As I grew up, you were always there for me; the sight of death never played a part in our relationship. Even when we lived far apart, you always were there.” I said in a matter of fact voice. “Now, suddenly, I've notice my own mortality and I've come to realize that the end is closer than the beginning. It saddens me. I don’t feel enriched with my life.”
The old man crinkles his forehead in puzzlement and says, “Life is a lot like that field of wheat out there son. Right now it is young and you see the beauty in it. As we get older, we absorb that beauty and notice how happy it makes us feel. As life goes on, we take that feeling and pull it into our soul's for safekeeping. “
He turns his head back towards the field and continues in his soft deep voice “someday, you’ll come back out to this very spot and the wheat will be all gone, cut down by the sickle of the farmer. The beauty will be all gone; the land will be stripped of its contents, looking like a three-day beard on an old wino’s face. That will be the end of this wheat field's life and it will appear dark and gray. But you will reach into your sole and remember the feeling it gave you when it was alive and golden.”
The old man sees a change of expression on my face. He stands and looks down at me. He reaches out and touches the top of my head with the palm of his hand. I feel his warmth and love run from the top of my head to the soles of my feet.
“As you move forward through life, remember there will be times when you will need to see life like a wheat field. Enjoy the beauty of its life and learn to adjust to the ugliness of its death.” He says.
He removes his hand and begins to walk towards the field. After a few steps, he stops and turns toward me and says “and always remember, I love you and I’ll always be near.” He then turns back and continues to walk away from me and out towards the middle of the field. I notice there are no broken wheat stocks where he walked.
I stay seated; watching him until his head disappears on the other side of the hill where the last strands of the weaving golden field meets the light blue sky. I feel a slight coolness in the air and tears begin to well in my eyes. “A sign of weakness?” I ask myself; the tears escape their cradles and roll down my cheeks. “No, the beauty of life.” I say out load to the man who has now disappeared.
I stand and look down at the base of the tree. There, engraved on the first line of a marble headstone is my fathers name, below that his date of birth and date of death. On the bottom line it said, “Son, I Love You. I Will Always Be Near.”
