sunday

i woke up at 3am with shards of glass in my throat.  after camping with t's 4th grade class for two nights, it was to be expected.  when i woke again at 8am, i was thinking about my father.  the bedroom was slightly cool as his was on the day he last spoke.  little t, then only three, toddled in and said, "hi, papa."  my father turned his head slightly, smiled a little as his eyes rested on t. "hey, t, how you doin'?"  it was the last thing he ever said.  when i woke up this morning i was thinking about the road my father's mind travelled after those words.  because i know he was still travelling.  still hearing conversations, still seeing scenes in his mind from his life.  but it was all his.  none of it shared.  his own private road home.  it makes me lonely, but also profoundly in awe of life and its unfolding.  there will always be the thoughts that are our own.  the things we'll never share.  and this thought makes the things that do we share ever more precious.  i can hear his voice, still.  that final question a gift like no other.  a strand of his concern that echoes over and over.  how you doin'?

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