The day after

The day after the surgeon gave us the news, I awoke early after a brief and fitful sleep and stepped quietly to the living room.  The early morning was cool and the birds called to each other in Papa's garden. 

I glanced down at family photos on a shelf near the window.  One was a wide range shot taken at Nancy's house at least 10 years ago, an informal gathering of 10 family members from three generations clustered on the driveway after a cookout.  At far right is my father in white shirt and blue trousers, a square wristwatch on his arm.  He smiles widely beneath his white trucker's cap with a red bill.

I looked at the smile in his eyes, behind his glasses.  Then there in my living room, I felt him by my side, reassuring me that things would be fine, no matter what happened.  Then the dog shook in her crate and the moment was gone.

I went back this morning after a restful nights sleep.  I could feel the strength, love and support of husband, daughters, and sisters, the thunder of prayers from family, friends and coworkers.  I took the photograph from the shelf and looked at my dad, but the moment did not reoccur. 

Perhaps he had communicated all that he wanted and was sitting peacefully on the concrete bench, enjoying the morning calls of the birds in Papa's garden.