The Tribute
Hello.Rick Dickenson It’s me. I know it has been a long time since we last admitted our existence to one another, but you know what they say, better late than never. Hating you, for awhile, had become my favorite pastime. But I learned that although the hatred burned inside me, it never made me warm; rather, it was a cold fire. It has been the longest lesson I ever learned--all the years since you left, until now. I was at the funeral, but of course you know that. Standing to the side, I looked over the huge flower arrangement on the lid of the coffin and saw Marie being held by her husband. From her icy blue eyes, tears escaped, forming tiny trails down her chubby cheeks. They slowly rocked back and forth, as the sobs wracked her body. I stared longingly for some time; a memory long lost flittering across my mind, before she looked at me. When she did, I wished she had kept staring at the grass. Her cold blue eyes had become red-stained blurs. With these eyes she sent a penetrating gaze my way. It was so cold it burned me. My own sister. I could not look any more; my courage failed me. My eyes rested upon the lone white carnation I placed on the coffin. As I watched the earth swallow them both I never wept. I am, after all, a stoic. Remember when we were younger? We used to sit on top of Miner’s Hill, looking at that man-made lagoon. We used to imagine it was the ocean. As we sat you would tell me about the adventures upon which we would embark -- just you and me. Remember the raft we built together to help live out dreams? It was three inner tubes tied to a piece of plywood. We sailed around the world in that raft, several times. I recall on one such fanciful voyage along the coast of Brazil, that pirates attacked us. Their first shot knocked out our cannon, forcing us to flee. They hounded us day and night. We tried every trick, but to no avail. Our food was becoming dangerously scarce; we were desperate. Then we saw our chance--the whirlpool. The location of the ancient drain plug of the ocean had long been shrouded in mystery. We hoped to lure the pirates into the whirlpool, but our plan backfired. The whirlpool got us. Through the whirling wet darkness we were flung through and spat out by the geyser on the other side of the world. We were exhausted. Time did not exist for me those days; rather we existed outside the constraints of time, living adventure after adventure. I never told you how wonderful those days were. I always felt I had forever. Then, when they abruptly stopped, it was too late. Dad told me you had a good reason for leaving. He said you would visit. I could not believe him at first, for it did not seem possible for you to be gone. I hated you for leaving me alone with just the memories. Marie hated me for making her cry alone; but she let Dad comfort her. Through the whole ordeal, my eyes remained dry; I could not cry. Dad was only one person, and he already had Marie and himself to comfort. As I grew older I stopped hating you. It seemed pointless to carry on our cold and silent war. Although the fire still burned frostily in my heart, there were now flashes of warmth. I had the fond memories, after all. It seemed selfish to cherish and hoard them. So each month I promised myself I would drop a letter in the mailbox, or pick up the phone and share the memories; but something always seemed to block the way. Then I received the phone call. When I reached the hospital Marie was already there, waiting for me. She told me I was too late you were already gone. I was devastated. A golden opportunity had hovered, frozen above my hands, but when I tried to grab it, it slipped through my fingers like hot sand. It was unfair. Words I had been saving for you became meaningless. Your ears would never hear them. The words were not merely late, but too late. Marie was still waiting, weeping. I tried to comfort Marie, but when I put my arm around her shoulder, she jerked violently as if my touch scalded her. “You don’t even feel!” she yelled before she ran off...crying. I wanted to yell, “But I do feel!” Marie only saw my straight lips and my clear green eyes; and she heard nothing. Immediately after the funeral service, I spent some time looking at the new-turned earth. The headstone had not been put in place yet; its place saved by a white wooden cross. I stared, dreaming of turning back the clock, dreaming, always dreaming. Dad put his arm around me and told me that you would be glad I was there. He also told me it was okay not to cry; he knew how I felt. I hugged him, then I walked away swearing I would never come back. My life went on as usual after that day--school, work, even dreamed a little. My girlfriend said I hated you, Marie said I hated life, Dad said everything was all right, but I could not figure out what I said. Then one day, an urge invaded my mind. It told me to go to the grave. I had been listening to little imp voices all my life and saw no reason to stop now. When I arrived, I parked my truck and walked through the cemetery. It took me awhile, but I found the right spot. The headstone was in place now. It was a marble gray slab, with a raised cross. I read through the name and the dates, then my eyes became riveted on two words -- Beloved Mother. Once I began breathing again, I touched my face and then looked at my wet fingers. No one was there, no one saw me, no one heard me, but I said “These tears are for you Mom...these tears are for you.” |