Back Patio

My father lived to be 82. Though I was born when he was 36, and obviously our relationship changed over time, the thoughts and feelings I had at seven feel the same as ones I recall through a lifetime of memories.

Warm summer evenings spent sitting out on the back patio, him in a webbed lounge chair and me in a matching lawn chair. Just the two of us watching the sunset over the back slough. At seven and then seventeen and twenty-seven and on.

So much time spent in companionable silence, watching the trees grow. Just listening to the birds sing.

There were, of course, many conversations intermixed. Their significance lost in the passing of the years.

Along with days filled with crisp spicy scent of fall leaves raked into large piles. Piles destined to be smashed apart, again. Cool late autumn days filled high with fresh cuts of sweet smelling wood and sweat from a hard day’s work.

Crisp cold winter nights came early. The wind bit hard against our cheeks. Our noses, bright red, smelled of woolen mittens, wet, in the stark white and black world.

The fresh clean fragrance of a wood fire burning still brings an ache to my heart. Memories of shimmering rainbow colored lights dancing on Christmas Eves. Over sized boots trudging footprints through pristine snow. Diamond edged fields sparkle white on sunlit January afternoons.

Wood smoke swirled high, dancing with crisp oak leaves.

Early mornings on a mirror smooth lake, the haze still clutching tiny spears into its unbroken surface. A lonely loon's wail echoes out across the reeds. The occasional plop of the lure landing just short of the lily pads shocks the otherwise serene surroundings.

Again, welcome silence fills the air. Companionship comfortable enough to let the world enjoy the morning blossoming into day, in peaceful reflection.

I spent more nights than I can count, sitting with my father on quiet summer evenings, or autumn afternoons filled with ducks and geese serenading us into the dusk. On chilling winter nights, we sat surrounded by banks of snow and ice, as more white flakes fell softly around us. Melting on cheeks, as fleeting as the moments of our lives.

Though, not always alone on the patio out back, the constant was the two of us, together.

My papa and I.

And on his very last day. I held his hand as he took his very last breath. This man who welcomed me into this world. Held me when I cried. Bandaged childhood scrapes. Cheered successes. Danced life's dance with me. He would not look down in his last moments on this earth and see an empty room. I waved him on in his farewell.

It will always be him and I on the patio, together, watching our sunset over the slough.