F is for Father and Son
Introduction to “F is for Father and Son”
People ask writers all the time, “where do you get your ideas?” And while I’m not enough of a writer to answer that question, I have thought about it, and sought wisdom from those much better than I. The best advice I’ve ever heard is to try to ‘think’ like a writer; always be looking for stories, even in your everyday life. Look for the metaphor in everything, said Ray Bradbury. And think about the things that affect you; a particular song, or work of art, or a physical place; why does it affect you? What does it say to you? Try to put that into a story.
And so this is for a song that has always brought a tear to my eyes. And I blame it on my first-grade teacher..
When I was in first grade, I had the most beautiful woman in the world for a teacher. Looking back, she must have been fresh from college; she was young and stylish and so incredibly cool. It was 1965.
And she brought a guitar to class.
And so we sang peace songs and protest songs and songs of the people. A room full of six-year-old revolutionaries.
She introduced us to Peter, Paul, & Mary, stalwarts of the 60’s folk scene, and so I carried PP&M with me well into adulthood. And one of my favorite songs has always been “Day is Done.” It always brings a lump to my throat, a tear, a stirring of hope whenever I hear it.
And this story was written with that song on ‘repeat,’ over and over, until the story was finished. It’s an attempt to put that sort of hope and longing and perhaps foolishly- shamelessly-dated optimism into words.
It was my son who saw Them. Of course. It was his turn.
The sun was beginning to set in the west. There were stars visible on the eastern horizon, but we were facing west, on Fountain Rock, where fathers and sons in my family had stood at sunset for generations.
He reached out for my hand. By midnight our positions would be reversed; he would be standing over me, and I would be the one reaching out, grasping, as I lay expiring, ending, weak, needing, wishing, regretting. But for now, I felt his touch, and took his young, strong hand in mine.
“You can see Them, can’t you? I wish I could.” I tried not to voice my disappointment. I had my day (nearly two, to be honest, which was a gift in and of itself), and my day was ending, and the next was his.
And They had chosen to come to him, not me.
“I see them, dad. They’re beautiful, glorious...I wonder what they want.”
I blinked back tears. “That’s what they will ask you, my son. They will ask you what you want.”
He didn’t answer right away; I felt him squeeze my hand. “I don’t know what to ask for, dad. What should I ask?”
I tried hard not to envy him; my people had waited 365 generations, 365 days, and now They had returned. They had returned too late for me. But They had returned in time for him, and I could guide my son through his day, this most special of all days, what my great-great- grandchildren would no doubt call The Day of Days.
“I cannot tell you the answer of my heart,” I told him. “My heart is now more than a whole day old, and it is hard and cold. You must look in your own heart. Ask from the goodness; I have tried to show you the goodness.”
He began to smile; the fast-setting sun was still bright on his face, and his smile was broad and joyous. In my own tiring heart, I felt music. My sunsets had been sadness, sorrow, unfulfilled longing, unmet expectations; to see him smiling at his sunset gave me joy beyond imagining.
For I had now lived through two whole sunsets, and that was rare; there were those in the community who wondered if that was a sign that I was the One...or if perhaps my son would be? I was glad it was him; there was a simple joy in him that I had never felt. My days had been beset by fear and a sense of unworthiness; he seemed to have none of that, only joy, only hope. He truly believed They would come; his faith was not mine, it was his own.
And now They were here.
I saw him reach his hand out. But he kept his other hand tightly on mine.
“You can let go of me now, son. You can go. It’s okay.”
He squeezed harder. “I will not let go. They have asked me what I want, and that is part of my answer, that I will not have to let go.”
My tears flowed freely now; this was my son, and I was not worthy of him.
The music that was in my head was then all around us. His arm was around me, walking me toward the sunset that seemed redder now, bluer now, greener now, darker now. We were soon at the cliffs, at the top of the crystal falls that fell down into forever.
As the sun began to disappear, I felt my legs weaken, but his arm was strong; he seemed to hold me up without effort. His mouth was at my ear. “They asked what I wanted, and I asked Them to take you with Them.”
I turned to him, feeling aches I was not familiar with. “No, my son. There are grander things to ask...things that will bless the whole community. You cannot ask just for me. I am happy to be buried with my fathers.”
Though the twilight was coming on and the light was fading, his face seemed to glow. “Oh my father...I love you, but you do not know Them as you thought you did. Their generosity goes beyond one question, beyond one answer. Their hand is infinitely open.”
I looked toward the darkening horizon, where the last of the sun was going away. In the red/blue/green left behind, I thought I saw...could it be? I blinked hard with my rapidly-fading eyes...and I saw...something. Something that should not be there. Something I had never seen, not with my eyes, but with my fondest wishes…
“Do you see them?” My son’s breath was warm in my ear, his voice deeper than before. It was the voice of a man. It was truly now his time, and mine was ending.
“I do...but how is it...they are only supposed to appear to one…” my voice sounded weak, old, even to me.
“To appear to only one generation, to only one son? Yes, father,” my son seemed to be chuckling in the deepening darkness. “But I am your son. I am yours. I am you.” The irony and the contradiction seemed to bring him great joy.
I started to speak, but I waited instead, staring ahead at the swirling ephemeral ethereal images that danced above the cliffs. They seemed to move closer, daring me to step closer, closer to the cliff’s edge, closer to what I had hoped for my entire wearisome two-day life.
I felt an odd strength, a confidence I had not felt since I stood near this spot with my own father, two days before. But now it was no longer faith, no longer hope; now it was sight...now it was there.
I was not frightened. I stepped forward, out of my son’s strong arm, to the cliff’s edge. He let go willingly.
I turned back one last time, toward my son. I could not help but smile.
“Whatever you ask, ask boldly, my son. Ask boldly.”
He lifted his hand to me, as I had lifted my hand to bless my own father. But my passing would be different than his; mine seemed to be not an ending, but a transition.
I turned away from my son, and stepped off the edge of the cliff.
