Wilflowers
Colorado. Ages ago.
Two men I love have their fathers entering the final phase of life. The phase where walking toward life's ever-extending horizon is nearly done. Where the accounting of things feels real, and what is done is done carries the finality of a sunset.
One of these men is new to me — my love for him is new, too. In the newness of us, he presents his grief tentatively. He does not want to burden me with its weight. Perhaps he doesn't trust me yet. He does not know that I will help him carry it. Love multiplies our strengths in direct proportion to how it minimizes our weaknesses. Today, as we navigated the choppy waters of making decisions for a man who is dying, I could see in his eyes surprise, sadness, tiredness, and then the resolution that comes from knowing there is nothing left to do but push forward.
The other man is my son. My beloved child has been holding his breath for the moment his father will depart this world for as long as I can remember. Many false alarms later, I think we are facing a reality where Michael is no longer crying wolf. Death may, indeed, be imminent. But who am I to know? I am a small child before God's infinite grace and wisdom. To Him I will trust our fates.
As I visited the homes that house the infirm, I was taken aback by the human kindness of those who work there — their eyes shining with warmth and empathy, all understanding that a son who brings his father there is both child and father simultaneously, shapeshifting from the one who needed nurturing into the one now providing it. As I walked the hallways, name tags beside each door — Sharon Meyer, John Edwards, Lucy Reynolds — I imagined the lifetimes of memory stored behind each one. The joys, the births, the deaths, the careers, the travels, the wins and losses, the achievements and the regrets.
In the common rooms, some residents ate quietly, others chatted over a card game, a few gazed out the window. The silver thread holding them together was clear to me: the waiting. Waiting for what comes next, for what lies behind the curtain, for the lifting out of this reality into another, whatever that may be. Believing as I do that we are animated at our core by undying souls, I quietly prayed as I walked those halls that every person I passed carried with them, if not faith, then at least hope.
The raw vulnerability of age is unavoidable for all who are blessed to live long lives. The father of the man I love is 89. Will's father is 79. Both carry the richness that time has afforded them, memories gathered like wildflowers, each petal as precious as the next, until the bouquet of a lifetime is complete, bursting with colors fixed forever in space and time.
The day extended into the afternoon. He and I sat in the living room, pondering what we had seen. He asked me: What did you learn today?
My answer was quick. I learned that when my time comes, I do not want to be alone. In my own voice, I could hear my fear — the natural human fear of death and the unknown, made sharper by feeling alone.
But sitting here now, writing this, I realize that being alone is not possible when you carry those wildflowers with you. Each memory everlasting. A minute and a decade the same. Our eyes stretch to the horizon and find not a sunset but a rebirth. The beginning and the end intermingle.
When the time is right, and the door opens to what is next, I hope that each one of us will realize that all that truly matters is the love we gave, because as we go, that is the wildflower that’ll stay.