Falstaff

This evening, my father and I drove out into the prairie again, down shining asphalt highways with bright white lines we travelled until the road disappeared into gravel, and then into rutted fields. I took my camera out and took pictures of him and the car and the sunset. I was wonderful, and you could hear leaves rustling in aspen and cottonwood trees by an abandoned farmhouse. The bright green and yellow grass of the plains becomes a warm darker shade and the evening breeze blows away the troublesome flys and insects. Dad is facing cancer and diabetes with resolve, and our time together is more meaningful to me now then when I was a pink faced fat little boy hanging onto the running board of grandpas pickup, I listen to every single word he says and even now find wisdom in his insights. Like the old bull before him, my grandfather, when I hear his voice, I also hear the strings of an old camphouse guitar plucked on the weathered steps of his farm in Montana, and I hear the hum of flys in the window and the moths flying into the lightbulb over the barn. I hear the rocking chair in my fathers voice, I hear the cold winters, the warm summers, the first taste of love in this youth, old girlfriends, and long dead friends, and when I listen closely, I sometimes hear regret as well. I watch him, sitting comfortably in the front seat of my old plymouth, and remember a tall man, with a compassionette voice, a stern discipline, and a good sense of humour, and even now, in his diminished health, I still see him shine through, and I admire him. Now his weathered skin, his thick glasses and his stooped posture make me see my own mortality as well.
He and I never really began to connect until recently, I insisted he get the surgery that would remove the mass in his bowels, and take his medication regulerly to relive his fatigue and lower his blood sugar, and lower his blood pressure. Now I understand, that like his father before him, he faces death with dignity and courage, he is more introspective. I have to come to terms with myself as well, my birth, my life, my regrets and my death as well. My father will not die alone, as his mother and father did, I will be there for him, and admire him now more than ever, his willingness to be intimate, to be strong, to have the courage to admit that he is not indestructable. In the sunset I see it all, we are mere specs of dust in the cosmos, grains of sand in the great beach, a loose thread or two in the fabric of the universe, but here, in this place, among the tall grass and setting sun, we are father and son, and that makes us special, makes us eternal, like the father the son and the holy ghost of my christian upbringing and surely that is divine as well, as the sun sets on us, so too it sets on other fathers and their sons, and I know that we must welcome death as we welcome life, for the cycle must continue on, so he and I will face it with courage...till the sun rises again tommorow

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dj_stick

beautiful image and passage there

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mainman

Well Jeff you allready know what i think. Thanks.

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Falstaff

Helios, Eu acredito que a lÃ*ngua do coração é a lÃ*ngua a mais
importante, se nós formos transformados por ele ou mudados ou sentirmos algo, é a finalidade pretendida de uma comunicação para mim, Eu espero que eu v seu trabalho logo demasiado...ciao.....Jeff

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mainman

O teu português está cada vez melhor meu amigo. É um orgulho para mim que me respondas na minha lingua mãe. Que Deus te acompanhe sempre. Fica Bem!!! Bom trabalho.


Hélio

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pr0digal jenius

non comprende...lol

Falstaff

portuguese bro, Mainman lives in the Azores.

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Zardon

brilliant jeff