I don't walk home, I drift. My son's weary and I'm just not good company. I'm remembering the phone relays: Telling dad's brother the news. "Oh no," was all he said, but his tone filled in the blanks. Couldn't find his sister, his younger brother was out, so I left word with his wife.
And Gramma, dear God - more sobs than words - the worst thing I've ever heard.
One after another, the same story - the same shock "But they'd made it through the storm, they were ok..."
They were, I'd explain, but not anymore. Remembering myself telling my friends that very day how fortunate my folks had been - yes, there was water in the house, but the house was still standing. The truck still worked, they had mom's intermittent cell phone. "They're doing great," I had said - during the very hour my dad was dying.
He was clearing some tree branches that had fallen across some power lines. He thought they'd delay the restoration of power to the neighborhood, and nobody was doing anything about it. Mom said she'd told him not to, but anyone who knows my dad, knows that's never going to be the end of it.
It had to be done, it wasn't being done. And that's all my dad needed to know.
Mom was going over to the neighbors when she heard the crash. One of the limbs fell in a way my father didn't expect, and he was thrown to the pavement. Head injury. "He was bad," was all mom said, "I thought he was gone right then."
I'm turning into my yard when that image overcomes me, my dad on his back, eyes open and staring - mom seeing the whole thing. He's 61 and fit, careful, a good person.
Not supposed to be this way. Not by a long shot.
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