On Shields and Swords

An elderly man sits in front of a cold television set, the house is warm, but silent this day. There are plenty of homemade meals, frozen and put carefully away and labeled, things his daughter made for him, on hand. But tonight, he just wanted some canned chicken soup and a generous drop of amber liquid, something familiar and warm for his soul.

Outside the wind blows, new spring leaves clinging to still bare branches as fiercely as flags. Inside, the phone rings, it's the neighbors, a couple of "kids in their 60's", as he calls them, calling to check up on him across the little white brick fence.  For they'd not seen anyone leave the house for a walk in a couple of days. Beyond the simple expression of Christian caring, they were concerned. He was fine.

He was glad they noticed.
His son used to live here, and he remembers those last days, his son sleeping, even early in the day, taking in little nourishment, but that which is needed for the pain. The two of them had some adventures, there in those days after the chemo was done.  It was a brief period of endless times, tearing up the streets, if only in the form of a road trip or two, a huge bottle of pickled herring, a six pack and a trip to the ER because someone got bad acid reflux.  Good times, times winding down, he thought as he watched his son sleep most of the day as if the heavens forgot to rewind him.

Tonight, his son is gone and his wheels are silent.  He's alone with his thoughts and the past, hoping the phone will ring.  It would be his daughter, who lives so far away, who checks on him daily and visits when she has days off that allow for a quick flight out there and back.

He thinks of her, not as a grown woman, but always as that little auburn-haired child who would sit on the couch for hours.  Her companions were the books she coveted, books that she did not so much simply love, but crave like an addict, the fire that flowed from the writer's mind through fingertips to be burnt upon the page, then doused with the water of laughter or tears, and wrung out again.  He always said there was no interrupting her when she was like that, the house could burn down around her as she embraced the words among the flames.  She remembers him saying  "She'll love everything that hard.  That will be both her blessing and her curse".  She wonders why she remembers it now.

He settles down as he waits for her call.
She, in turn, is glad he has neighbors that check on him, and a nurse's aide with him morning through night. He is a man that's already outlived two children and two wives, been part of a Great War and watched his friends die, limping back from battle in an aircraft punctuated with German greetings.  He's as tough as some hardy winter plant that can bloom under the heel of snow, unaware of the heart's unceasing combat with its own thinning blood

So someone always checks on him and she has had more than one call when his curtains weren't opened or the dog was barking, only to find he'd simply fallen asleep in the chair.  Apologies were made but she would dismiss them, for better to be concerned and have it be a false alarm when looking away from someone who is in need of dire help.
We are so afraid of getting into anyone's business or even looking closely at our own, that we often fail to look around us, to watch for threats, even as we appreciate all the good that is still around us. Tensions build, darkness threatens, yet there will always be someone, head down, not noticing, with a "lalalalala". It's scary when I see that in a young woman, prey for so many. It's even scarier when I see it in those who, by their power, are supposed to make things safer so when I am ready and willing to defend myself, it's against a manageable target.

It wasn't always this way. In my Dad's time, a nation attacked us without warning and we dropped a very large atomic bomb on them. Today, we apologize profusely to those who wish to kill us, closing the shutters so we don't see rogue nations continue to build their nuclear capability. We close our mouths, stopping our protests before they become sound.The only sound was the wings cleaving the air, a sound that is like all other sounds of profound mystery, the lap of a wave upon a shore, the echo of taps, the whispers of a voice that speaks to you in dreams from an eternity away, heard but not comprehensible.

There were a lot of good times, and there were a lot of good memories wasted as more than once I said "should have" or "would have"  Those are words in all of our hearts, at least once. We recall much of our life as each year passes, candles on another cake, warm breath against the flames. But what do you remember most - the best day of your life or your last regret?

The difference is profound.
How often do we stay silent, when we are searching, when we need help when we are hurt?  How often do we shut ourselves away when we want a cool touch upon the brow or a hand that helps us up a steep slope. How many times have we wanted to say what was in our hearts but kept silent? There is so much that can keep us from the truth of things, holding us in that toil of a heart's hesitation.

Sometimes it's pride, sometimes it's hurt. Sometimes it's history.  Often it's the fear of being judged or even rejected. The safety stays on, the mouth stays closed and while we think we are protecting ourselves, we're merely closing a door on life, one that can be as fixed as one of a prison.  In doing so sometimes we lose a friend, we lose an opportunity or we lose out on love- that improbable, inexplicable, and sometimes bewildering thing that binds us together despite our blood, or through it.

I remember those last days and when I looked at my Dad, and my brother's name was mentioned he got this look of profound grief on his face, even as I've learned to get through the day as a stoic. He was a man who was not Time's trinket and for him, my brother's collapse and death on Good Friday as if it was yesterday.

But he'd not have given up the experience of adopting and raising him, both of us, for any happier ending. That's what I will remember.

When I had to leave him I took comfort in those that watched over my Dad, someone who would knock on his door, with food, with care, making sure he wasn't alone that night. He'd look through the peephole, unlock the door, and open his home and his heart, all that was left to him, to those friends he loved and who loved him. In his closet is a military uniform, on his porch an American flag, and within his reach, until he was too frail to handle it, a shotgun that had fed and protected him for over 75 years. On the table, was a photo of a tiny spitfire of a woman, years before her bones shrank inwardly, her mind and her flesh growing sparse in those last days that he never ever, left her side.