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Time of Returning

by Josh Smythe-Connor

The day I returned to my father’s house, I saw a man unfamiliar.  His face bespoke a history of memories unrecognizable to mine.  Each furrow of brow held the passion of living. Each line cried out as if to witness days upon days of triumph which  had followed nights of fear. His silver hair no longer held the innocence of youth but shone with the glory of a life lived to the full. He was a lifetime of joys and sorrows—memories shared with the many who gathered here to share with him, once again, this fleeting moment in the ribbon of time-his time.In stunned silence I wandered the house. Handshakes, embraces, greeted me on every turn. 

“So glad you’re here.” 

“Doesn’t he look good?”

“Remember when…?”

It was that last that touched a place deep inside me.  Words spoken in innocence that assumed I knew and I remembered.  An assumption that I, his beloved son, was privy to his public and his private thoughts.Those words, whose simplicity reverberated in my ears, fell upon my very soul.

I did not remember. I did not know. I was not here. I, who had screamed my independence, who had clutched my life and held it selfishly, always chose the sirens’ song.  I lived far enough from him to fly but close enough to love. Still, I was no longer a part of his living.  I had gently closed the door. 

There were no harsh words between us. Just a constant invitation so easily and so flippantly brushed aside. How often he had queried, “Come.” “Talk.” 

I know he loved me. And I loved him.  (I think he knew that. I hope to God he knew that.) Still, over and over the dark angel whispered in my ear and in the great wisdom of the young I repeated his whisper in answer to my father.  It was an answer that will forever echo through the empty space in my heart.

“Tomorrow.I’ll see you tomorrow.”