Sabbath #22

My father placed his hand on mine. The conversation no longer mattered. Words spoken could be any words. His body leaned into me.  My breathing, easy, his less. I arrived not needing anything. That was the difference. Now, he needed something from me: Comfort, forgiveness. I gave both freely without hesitation. It mattered that I had just come from the funeral of a friend’s mother, spoken to his ninety-one year old father, left alone on the farm. Her butter beans, corn and peaches fresh in the freezer. Summer passed quickly. We have entered fall and approach the time when the veil is the thinnest between living and dead. My father, alive today; hopefully, finding peace and not afraid.

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