My bones feel creaky and brittle; there’s a mild pain in my lower back that hurts whenever I take a deep breath. I need to get out of town, to get away from everything. I don’t want to tell anyone—family, friends or co-workers. Just drive as far as my car can take me. I’m itchy for a new experience, anything to make me feel different, and to take the pain away.
So I get in my rundown Mazda and I drive up the coast, searching for a sign, a message, or an experience that could help me find my direction. My father had always been my friend and mentor. He always supported me. He encouraged me like a good counselor. He was the one that I went to when I felt stuck. Now I’m stuck and he’s gone.
He always said the right things. They were simple words, but he said them generously, from a place that was real and sincere. When I pined for a woman and didn’t think I would ever find one, he told me that there was a “lid for every pot.” When I was in the hospital suffering from pneumonia, hooked up to an IV and despondent, he told me that at least I don’t have cancer. They were silly comments, some may even consider them to be insensitive, but you had to know my father. The things that he said came from the right place. He knew how to make me feel better.
Heading north to the Bay Area from my home in Santa Cruz, I get on Route 1 and just drive. A country song on the radio reminds me of him. He liked singers like Merle Haggard and Johnny Cash who had a chip on their shoulders. He called them “down-to-earth” people. “These guys don’t bullshit you,” he said.
My father was a simple, unpretentious man. He sold fruits and vegetables most of his life. His father handed down the produce profession to him. If you knew him, you’d call him a blue-collar guy, a hard worker who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. He always put in a good day’s work, coming home each night with scuffed boots and grimy work shirts. He labored long and hard for many years.
He wanted me to have an easier life, one where I wouldn’t have to wake up early in the morning and load a truck with fruits and vegetables. He wanted me to be different, to not work so many hours and to not wreck my body lifting heaving boxes of produce.
Passing the citrus fields and avocado farms remind me of him. His large hands and strong fingers put a heavy bag of potatoes on his back. He dumps the potatoes into a display bin and removes the rotten ones without using gloves. I think of him putting a couple of wooden crates of cantaloupes on his handcart and wheeling it to the cooler. He weighs a hand of bananas on a hanging scale. He smiles at a customer with his thick lips and a mouth full of false teeth. He tells the customer to throw in another banana or two to make it three pounds. He never charged extra when it went over.
I want to see the redwood trees with centuries of history that could put my life in perspective. I want to be in the middle of the Muir Woods and surround myself with nature, lose my melancholy, and feel strong again.
An image of my father pushing me on a swing comes into my mind. He helps me up the slide and makes a funny whistle when I slide down. He holds my rump when I climb the monkey bars so I don’t fall. He teaches me how to bounce a basketball without losing the dribble. We laugh a lot. We hug each other. He comforts me when I bruise my knee. He reminds me to be nice to other children.
He makes me feel good. When I’m with him, everything feels the way it should be and nothing will ever change. Time will stand still. I will never grow older. He will live forever.
Walking along the wooden pathway of the Muir Woods, I see luscious green plants, tiny animals, insects, and hear the tapping sounds of woodpeckers. Nature is arranged so perfectly, just like my father arranged his fruit truck with his merchandise. No space wasted. Things put where they were supposed to go. He knew exactly where they were when he needed them. I breathe in the cool, fresh air making my lungs fill up and then sigh it all out.
The Polaroid pictures of my dad holding me as a baby flashes in my head. He held me tight, not wanting me to fall. He looked at me like he was looking at a miracle. His eyes watered with happiness and his emotions ran high. He whispered that he would always take care of me.
He allowed me to walk at my own speed. He didn’t push or pull me like some parents might do. He didn’t try to control me but let me explore life at my own pace. When he did grip my hand, it made me feel secure and loved.
Right now I’m trying not to cry. If my father were here he would tell me to let it all out. He was very masculine but he believed that it was okay for a man to cry. He cried at his brother’s funeral, my mother’s struggles with mental illness and the many other sad events in our life. When he cried, his baldhead got red, his glasses fogged up and he carefully cleaned them with a tissue. It was powerful to watch him cry. It made me not be afraid of tears.
Crying like a man, like my father today. I long for him to be breathing and his blood circulating through his body. His voice is loud in my head and his infectious laugh feels comforting. He squeezes my shoulders when he hugs me. I sit on his lap as a kid and he bounces me up and down on his knee. I can’t stop thinking about him.
Feeling weak and vulnerable as I walk through the woods. It will be my time soon to stop living. It might be tomorrow or next week or some time in the future, I don’t know. I’ll be dead and gone and my kids will go through the same melancholy journey. Why did he leave me so suddenly? I should have taken better care of him or encouraged him to see the doctor.
I’m trying to stop crying, but I can’t.
My legs feel shaky like I’m going to fall. My father keeps me from falling. He holds me upright so I can stand tall. He taught me to walk, to ride a bike, and to drive a car. He bought me my first car. He taught me how to drive a stick shift. He didn’t yell at me when I made mistakes. He just told me to keep trying.
The sunlight splinters through the tall trees making the spider webs look like beautiful kaleidoscopes. I lose myself in the whistling wrens, blue jays singing, owls hooting, scurrying wood mice, crayfish in the stream, snowy egrets with skinny legs, and the river otters splashing in the water.
Standing beside the tall trees with their massive bark, I find myself experiencing its unspoken wisdom. The trees survived far worse than me. Their power and history far outweighs mine. I dig my heels into the earth to take root. Closing my eyes, I imagine I’m one of the tall trees.
My father touches my shoulder. He is silent in his strength. He communicates to me without words, that it is all right. It is what it is. Death comes and goes. Don’t try to control it. Embrace it. It’s all good.
My father walks beside me. He is young again. He is not hooked up to a respiratory machine. He is no longer on life support, gasping for air and barely living. He is fully conscious, breathing freely, functioning without any help from machines. There is no longer the need for a morphine drip to ease his pain. He is happy again. He smiles at me for the longest time and slowly dissolves in the cool forest mist, leaving behind his signature odor that once defined him.
My energy has come back. The pain in my lower back seems to have disappeared. The palette of nature’s colors in Muir Woods appears more beautiful and vibrant now. With each step I feel more in harmony with the way things are.
I call my wife to tell her where I am and that I’m on my way home. She informs me that my son is out with his friends and that my daughter is in her room finishing a term paper. My wife says that there’s some stew cooking in the Crockpot and would I please pick up some French bread on my way home.
The oyster and turkey tail mushrooms are below my feet on the forest floor. The insects, spiders, squirrels, and chipmunks are more active. The woods engulf me once more. I forget my fears, my loss, and have a renewed sense of belonging.
The darkening sky signals me to make my way quickly back to the car. It gets windy and the leaves swirl around me. Looking up at the trees for one last time, they seem to be reaching for the heavens.
I realize that I haven’t lost my father. He’s as close to me as he ever was. He never left.