At A Glance

We sneak peeks at each other from across the room. Tiny snapshots stitched together through time they form a memory we take with us when we aren't in the room together. That collage is the quilt we wrap around ourselves when we want to smile. That smile is warmth. It is heat energy personified.

Centralia

Centralia

The area is almost completely devoid of any life. The forests are quiet and immobile. Yet, among them are tossed out toys and mattresses and other forgotten items. They're rotting. Breaking down into the dirt with the rest of the town. An eeriness hangs over the entire area. There's an uneasiness that wafts through air as you stand looking at all these discarded items. Underground, a blaze rolls on slowly licking away the coal from dying mines. While above, the area is a boiling ghost town. Eventually, I think the flames will finish breaking their way up through the abandoned highway. From there they'll burn what's left of the town into ash. A dangerous beauty exists in Centralia.

Bombshell

It’s dark outside and my mother is cooking dinner. This won’t strike me as odd until many years later. It’s dark out. And my mother is making dinner. This is summer time. Dinner’s usually done before the sun even has a chance to set. She’s got one hand on her hip. The other is stirring something in a pot. (It’s probably spaghetti. The big pot is always for spaghetti. I really hope it’s spaghetti.) She’s focused on her task and doesn’t look at me when she tells me my father wants to talk to me.

He’s sitting at his desk at the top of the stairs in the attic. Later, this attic will become my room; I’ll seek refuge from my life here. Maybe the same way my father is doing now. Each step I place my foot on causes an echoing groan. To my quiet house each sound is glass shattering. No matter where you step, these stairs will always moan.

Reaching the top I can see him in front of his glowing computer screen. He’s still heavy set at this point in time. It won’t be for another ten years until he begins to lose weight. He reminds me of the Hulk trying to fit himself behind a desk without breaking it.  His knees are scrunched under the desk tightly. He looks uncomfortable. The desk looks like a child’s play desk in comparison to him. I am as big as a mouse to his lion.

He knows I’m there. He heard me come up. I know he did. Yet, here he is waiting for me to acknowledge myself. Anytime my father wants to talk to me I know it won’t be good. It will never be good, not in a million years.

“Mom said you wanted to talk to me?” I squeak out.

He pushes his chair out slowly from the desk, careful not to bump his knees.

 “Your bus route for first grade changed this year. So your mom and I were talking and we’re going to send you to a different school. It’s the public school right up the road.”

He says this firmly, signaling to me that it isn’t up for discussion. That any words I would have at this point would be futile and a waste of perfectly good air. His initial statement doesn’t register with me. I can understand the words coming out of his mouth. I know what they mean. They make sense. But they have no impact on me yet. As he finishes talking he’s looking at me to accept what he has just said as final. I realize I am holding my breath. I let it out slowly, still stunned at his news.

My father is still waiting for me to acknowledge him.

Concentration

            The heavy apron is tied tightly behind his back. The plastic face shield goes on. The circular saw starts with a kick and a piercing ‘whir’. My father is hunched over, staring at the board in concentration. He’s trying to cut exactly where he marked the wood. I’m watching him from the back porch. I like to watch him work. He does everything with such ease.  

A piece of lumber falls to the ground and he straightens himself. With a relaxed sigh, the face shield comes off. He sets it down next to the saw. The blade revolves slowly as he blows on the excess saw dust.

The dust leaps into the air, springing to life. Forming a wave it begins to slowly drift towards the ground. Like playful children, the shavings dance across the air, floating on the sunlight. I’m mesmerized.

The shrill hiss of steel slicing into lumber encroaches on my daydream. Hunkered back down, that same look of concentration is plastered across his face. I can see the tip of his tongue poking out between his lips.

I realize I’m studying him. Once again, I find myself lost in the details. Sweat collects on different parts of his face. There’s a line of liquid connecting his eyebrows. The rusty beard he wears with such pride looks darker than normal. His shirt is a patchwork quilt of light and dark spots. Arm pits, chest, neck line and back are all snuggly stuck to his body.

He reaches the end of the cut and another piece of lumber tumbles to the ground. Once more the shield comes off. He’s examining the latest cut, running his thumb across the edge. The tape measure comes off his belt. He extends it, lays it down on the rest of the board, and plucks the pencil from behind his ear. A few more marks made. The items go back to their original place.

He looks up from the work bench. Our eyes meet. It takes me a minute to see that he’s now staring at me as intently as I was at him.

“You gonna quit gawkin and give your old man some help?”

His words snatch me up. My tongue is tied up in my mouth.

“No. No, I’m ok. You can just keep going.” I squeak out.

His face shows unexpected surprise. Did I give the wrong answer? Did he really want me to help him? Why would he need my help? He’s doing fine by himself.

“You sure?”

I’m not sure how to answer this time.

“Yeah. I couldn’t do it as good as you anyway.”

With a slight shrug and a sigh the plastic face shield goes back on. The circular saw starts with a kick.

Burying Our Father

For a little while we put our thoughts to sleep. The hearty laughter blanketing the room drowns the sound of ice softly knocking together in our glasses. It covers every inch of the house like clockwork. Regular intervals of call and response. Story, laughter. It's our family's prayer.

These moments have more emotion, more passion, and more energy than can ever be expressed. Empathy flows through the room. A loop of joy strikes to each and everyone our hearts. Our bellies rumble, sides split, and tears roll on. Even after the story is finished and the laughter has subsided, we can't shake off the giggles. They're halfway points between more laughter and more story. We don't want either to stop.

We realize how complacent we have become by those who surround us. With a single death we remember what family means.