We fell to sleep, our last night as normal people, in the house that had been our home for three years, listening to the difference of it’s emptiness. Barren of the things of life within, even against the wind and the rain, the sound was un-familiar . . . .
This morning brought a blue sky beginning, the rain having followed the wind, left with the night to roam other places, leaving us behind also, for the rest of the day and it’s contentions. No-one hears the noise of the crash, the sound of a family slipping away. The commotion of other lives still seems to find purpose beyond our tragedy. We are alone in this wreck.
I am no longer entitled to appreciate the beauty of the Oregon landscape nor the smells of a Cascade Spring. My reasons can only settle upon the concept of punishment, a retaliation of the Gods for my past sins. I thought surely my debt with Karma had been paid. I’ve lived life through times that seemed bent on my destruction and I have persevered. Venomous habits were put to pasture, standing in the past to remind me that a man’s reflection is only as noble as the shadow he leaves behind.
“Dad, are you okay?” This is my son. The light of my shadow, stepping out of which to cast his own.
“I’m good,” I lie.
Above all else now, I feel that my mission is to ease his worry. Our lives have become a clearinghouse, a mass liquidation of our possessions and his main concern is for me and my waning health. I am humbled by his capacity to look beyond this disaster that has befallen us. Everyday things of a fifteen year old’s life are lost to the storm and still he stands in battle against his own despair, a soldier ready, to lighten my load.
How much does the world weigh?
We had spent the weekend placing price tags on belongings once coveted, desired only for their second-hand value now. A sign at the end of our driveway told our story to the strangers of the highway and they came, seeking the cheapest deals that they could procure against our desperation.
I spent some sixteen years being Superman. I raised my son alone and I stood proud in the happiness he found in life. In his happiness, I found my own.
But I am defined by this illness now.
An un-named alien stole my power, my desire and my meaning. It’s Kriptonite, poisoning the bottom line of my existence, disregarding the rules and boundaries of normalcy. I face a bitter landscape riddled with a stigma that I, myself, once subscribed to. I am dealt with indifference by my own government which spends billions on overseas aid and to bomb other countries into democracy but ignores it’s own citizens living in poverty. My son and I are haunted statistics of a myth that has been perpetrated upon our society. Pictures of the downtrodden on the evening news show the vagabonds, but don’t tell the stories behind the reasons. Our middle class has turned into the working poor. I was able to pay my bills but I couldn’t afford health care. If this can happen to me, it can happen to anyone.
“Well, I guess we better be hittin’ the road, buddy,” I say. We shoulder our backpacks.
A son sees his Father’s tears.
“There’s always hope, Dad,” he tells me, slapping me on the back, man style. Tomorrow is his sixteenth birthday. “Cheer up.”
We close the door.
Our driveway runs downhill to the highway and is just long enough to allow a short slide show of memories to stroll across my eyes. A dusty montage of my Grandmother’s things, treasures from a long life past handed down to me, sold in dire straits to the highest bidder. My son’s computer, a financial milestone for education – and happiness, became an investment in camping gear for our new journey. How many seasons circled on the calender of this home? It is left, for another family maybe, where dust gathers, on forgotten dreams and words that are prayed.
We left our home like criminals leaving the scene of a crime. Broken pieces of a machine.
Ghosts on the side of the road.
