Dad, You Left Your Chariot

Yesterday was a rough day.  It was the end of our time of stories and companionship, and you loved stories.  And I loved you.  Over the past year we have shared many moments, a fleeting capture of memories soon to fade behind new ones

Brought you the book on Sigmaringen written in French, that lovely middle aged castle whose family had harbored you in Umkirch near the end of the war.  You were alert then, but bedridden and weakening daily. I brought a dictionary too, but I suspect you never looked at that - the French came roaring back, usually in the form of flirtations with the nurse. And we joked about Paris, recalled finding your old apartment on  Rue de Bucci on the west bank with the miracle of Google earth, streaming memories of bygone life and times, all documented in your book War Torn.

Or that tale of love forsaken in Massachusetts, of boarding the ship home to Germany standing next to a petite woman crying by the rail, you consoling her, a violinist on her Fulbright scholarship.  A kindly gesture rewarded by an Atlantic crossing of days with Ruth, your new friend Ray, also love-lost, and the three of you sharing chocolates on a deck stair late into the evening at the start of a long relationship.  And here she is with her husband, Ray, coming to your hospital room 63 years later, playing her violin, to say good bye on a lifelong friendship. 

Of Mom, gone now nearly fifteen years and your desire to join her, and your voicleless nodding to say "hi" from me .  But ever alert, strategic and organized, running through your mental lists while Atti and I sit silently by, wondering how long you will be with us, and you whispering out quite unexpectedly that the car needs an oil change.  I couldn't help but laugh. 

Of children, grandchildren and great grandchildren born and unborn but on the way, the pride in each and every one of them.  Of family and friends far and wide, with whom we could connect via Skpe or phone - they typically together for  the holidays, they shocked by seeing you white-on-white sheets bedridden as you were, weakly and quietly saying your goodbyes to them , and they mostly shocked, dazed and at a loss for words.  A terrifying moment really, for what can you say?  Yet more messages read, and acknowledged by you with a slight smile or raised eyebrow as you drifted further away - and especially of Laura's heartfelt message to you that I could barely read, and your knowing smile of pride.

And me, choking  up listening to these goodbyes, but knowing deeply that this was our gift to you, to bring closure on a life well lived. 

Of evenings spent sorting through your stuff at home, such stuff so well organized as to cause my personal embarrassment that I somehow missed that gene, but advancing the preparations for your departure so easy and well documented, yet still finding "historic" handwritten budget notes from 1963.  You were a stickler for order and detail - I can see that manifestation as I sift though files, carefully kept these so many years.  Now I know what you spent for my college, down to the penny.

I brought the ride in to your room a couple of times, fourteen miles one way, including the always interesting causeway crossing.  The first time I wheeled to the side of your bed and put your hand on the saddle, and you in your drowsy state, slowly caressed the saddle, and asked me softly "which bike?"  "The Lightspeed Pop - your chariot to the hereafter ".  And you smiled and knowingly approved, whispering a few precious moments later "I want you to have this bike" before drifting off to sleep again.  And slowly over days, while we observed the frolicking dolphins and manatees in the lagoon outside your window, you quietly slipped away from us.

I was certain the world stood still in the quiet, early morning darkness, the moon shimmering on San Carlos Bay as we drove home for the last time.  The weight of my sadness was heavy, and I managed a few restless hours of sleep.

You left your chariot behind, Pop. 

I mounted it with your helmet, your gloves, and pedaled hard tip-to-tip that morning, enjoying the natural activities of the day, the gator by the pond, the gaggle of ibis, just another day. The world had indeed not stopped, it was not a dream.  I pedaled hard and fast,  using the bike paths you worked so hard to plan, taking in the lighthouse, sliding easily through the great curves of Gulf Drive, running at pace up to the tip of Captiva to catch the sea, sprinting the last few miles home. I rode the final 100 yards or so in your honor - only my left leg pedaling, the right stiff and hanging as it has over all these years you rode Pop.  How did you do it?  My left leg could barely handle 100 yards,in a few minutes, and yours went years and tens of thousands of miles! 

You inspired me to ride, and now, I ride on your chariot.  Thanks.    For everything. . .