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Image for the poem Leaving Light

Leaving Light

His callused hands coaxed beauty from stone. He was an engraver whose skills were highly sought, whether to letter large stone entrances for parks or custom-design tombstones for the wealthy.  He kept photos on file for each of his jobs, and as a child, I sometimes carefully looked through the brown folders, marveling at his work.  
 
My favorite day was Friday. Dad would come home for supper and then take us to the Dairy Queen for ice cream. He’d tell funny stories about where he’d traveled that week to do engraving. We laughed at his impersonations of rich people and how they wanted their extravagant tombstones to look. He said part of his job was toning down crazy ideas so folk’s graves would still look somewhat dignified standing in cemeteries a hundred years later.  
 
After ice cream, he tucked us in, and we went to sleep to the low hum of voices from our parents’ bedroom followed by mysterious sounds and creaking bed springs.  
 
Years later, I sat beside my father’s bed in a darkened room with a window looking out over a small hayfield he owned west of Amarillo, Texas, close to where we grew up. He was dying. I raised the window so fresh air could mingle with the stench of death that hovered in the room.  
 
My mother and my grown sisters sat in the next room talking softly while, as the oldest, I stood watch at his bed. The only sounds were from his labored breathing, something the hospice nurse said would signal that the end was close.  
 
Sitting in the dark, I thought of my twelfth birthday when he picked me up from school and took me on a plane with a crop-duster friend of his. The pilot flew us over our home place and around the town, pointing out landmarks. It was the best birthday present ever.  
 
As we drove the dusty road home, he explained that he would be leaving soon, but would come back to visit. He said, “I need you to be the man of the house.” I didn’t know how to do that but nodded. The truck bounced and my head felt heavy as I tried to make meaning from his words.  
 
My mother and two younger sisters cried that evening, but I didn’t. My dad left the next week and never returned though he did come back to visit. It seemed strange that my mother never hated him, and we were always glad to see him. He and my sisters always cried when it was time for him to go.  
 
After Dad’s funeral, I was going through his papers. He had kept and added to the many files showing his engravings over the years. In the back of his little file cabinet I found a set of several files organized by state. I pulled out Arizona, remembering as a child that lots of rich people needing fancy tombstones died in Arizona.  
 
Inside were several envelopes. The first one had a photo inside with crimped edges as if it had been handled a lot. In the photo, a slender lady in a summer dress was sitting on a porch. She had dark red hair and freckles. She was pretty, with a sweet smile and kind eyes that reminded me of my mom when she was younger. On the back, it said, “With all my love, Suzy.” An attached letter described how much she and her three children enjoyed the ice cream and that they were looking forward to his next trip through. Then, “PS Thanks for staying the night.” The date was April 23rd, 1975, a year before he took me on that plane ride.  
 
I sat stunned by his deception. I understood the challenges of marriage from my own life, having recently separated, but still the timing shocked me. I flashed back to those Friday nights, realizing that he’d probably spent the middle of some of those weeks with a family in Arizona. And stayed the night with a lady named Suzy. I wanted to hate him for it but could not.  
 
There were other women in Arizona. The photos showed smiling faces, and some had dates, all indicating they occurred after his divorce, making me think Suzy must have been the one who led my father away from his family. I found another letter dated after his divorce. In it, Suzy asked why his work hadn’t brought him to Arizona. I knew from reading the letters from other women that he had been in Arizona, a lot. Later in the stack another letter from Suzy said a man asked her to marry him and she was going to do it. She expressed regret that their love hadn’t lasted.  
 
Every letter, note, and photo felt like a brick hitting my face and changing my childhood. I thought of how happy he was when he’d visit after the divorce. Now I thought, no wonder he was a happy man, having fun all over the place.  
 
I came across a letter from a lady named Lucia in New Mexico. Her photo was more revealing than most, showing full tan breasts under a shear blouse. Lucia must have been a piece of work I thought, wishing I’d come across a Lucia more my age.  In the letter, she said, “Think of me when you see lightning bugs darting across the plains and know I’m thinking of you. Each short span of light celebrates one of our special moments together.”  
 
My mind went back to my father’s death. As he was taking his last breaths, the hayfield came alive with lightning bugs. Hundreds lit the starless night outside his room, enough light that the tops of grass shown silver. When his breathing stopped, the lightning bugs faded quickly, and the field was dark.  
 
Could it be that those flashes of light represented the euphoric moments of his life? It seemed that all of them made a light and filled the field behind his house before going silently dark. One of those bits of light might have been the moment of my conception when he and my mother were enthralled with each other’s newness and shared a passionate night on their squeaky mattress?  
 
Thinking of that felt strangely erotic thirty-seven years later. Then it became clear to me that all of those glittering lights were part of the same thing. Whether a deep and trusted love or a casual passing passionate affair, it all carried weight, emotion, and light. Each added to the sum total of life and had value. Even the love that came at a cost to others had redeeming qualities in the end and brought joys, even if flawed.
 
Since my separation, I’d been a solitary man. After my father’s death and the revelations of Lucia and the lightening bugs, I resolved to break down my defenses and spread love freely at will. Yes, there would be pain and hurt, but I would love with abandon, knowing all acts of love hold the possibility of redemption. At the very least, they carry moments of pleasure, and that is something.  When I died, I hoped there would be many glittering lights adding beauty to the hayfield outside my window.
Written by LostViking (Lost Viking)
Published
Author's Note
This story follows a son's reckoning of his father's infidelity.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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