March Weather

I sat outside my parents' home last week and cursed the fact that my Dad would die in winter. Winter is so cold and unfeeling, so much the antithesis of what my father is and what, by extension, I am.

I've always loved the fact that I was born in March...I thought March was the most awesome month, new lives sprouting from the dregs of winter, unpredictable, sometimes fearsome, seldom ordinary. March is volatile. March is the month of metamorphosis: from cold, dead barrenness to fertility and renewal. I love the simple, physical sensations of entering my month blustery and cold and leaving it budding and warm.

But I cursed the chilly winds last week, though they are normal for early March. It's everything else that's abnormal. I cursed the skeletal appearance of the trees, their lack of buds. I cursed the fact that the ground that would be broken for my father would be hard and cold, all its life force frozen still. Of course, Dad will be creamated, but I still cursed that.

But tonight I went outside with Sadie. I had just uttered what I believe may be the last words Dad will ever hear from me...

I told him I was glad I'd known him. I told him I wish I'd realized how special he was years ago and how I wish I'd grown up earlier so we could have enjoyed each other as adults. I told him I was thankful for all he'd done for me and for us. I told him that I hope he feels about me the way I feel about my son, Michael. (Then I knew that was true.) I told him that one of the things I would miss most about him was that, through him, I can feel my specialness. (No one will ever make me feel like my Dad does.) I told him I wish I'd enjoyed him more. I told him he will always be my number one man.

I gave him his Morphine and moistened his dry mouth. I told him I love him. I told him it was okay to go to sleep. My mother keeps vigil from the couch. I wonder what, or if, she has told him.

I went outside with Sadie, who would not pee for love nor money. I felt a different wind rise up against my cheek. This wind was mild and pleasant and bespoke the wonders of the seasons and years and lives to come. This breeze was kissed with moisture. In it, I smelled, felt the dark, damp earth. I could almost see the beuaties it heralded, the jonquils, the spring mammals, the fecundity.

So I made my peace with March and with the fact that I would have to share it with my Dad. I don't mind that he'll die in my month. I've tasted the promise of spring in this darkest of winters and I'm no longer afraid of the cold.