Writing Samples: "Silent Echoes"

I tug slowly, almost reverently, at the old black metal suitcase that resides under my father’s bed. As it comes into view, I notice the thick layer of dust on the top of this treasure chest. No one ever cleans it, perhaps the dirt cannot be cleaned because it has become so much a part of the suitcase. I wonder who first purchased this piece of ancient luggage. Why did they buy it, and for what reason? These are rhetorical questions. Though I am curious, I will not take the time to investigate it.

I set the case upright and grab it with my right hand, my non-Parkinson arm, and I carry it into the kitchen where my aged, ailing father awaits. He is alone this week while my mother is in the hospital having surgery. I am here to visit with Dad and to make some meals for him and to keep him company. He will not admit it, but he is frightened that he and his lifelong partner no longer have good health. The changes which illness has brought into their lives cannot be understood by anyone else. Which one will go first? Which one will be left behind? How will the survivor get by? These questions are on Dad’s face. Though only faintly now, they are more clearly visible each time I drive up north to see him.

With the suitcase lying flat on the floor, I unclasp the latches and carefully lift up the top and lean it backwards until it rests upon the floor. My dad watches this process patiently. We have agreed to bring out this chest of personal treasures. Yet, he seems apprehensive.

By the handful, I grab the memories and place them onto the table within dad’s reach. He takes one of the photographs and appears to be listening to it. We hear the laughter, the giggles, the photographer saying, “Say cheese!” and the chatter of people who were alive and behind the scenes when these pictures were taken. I can hear Aunt Sophie’s clear voice again. Grandma Wood’s dog, Susie, barks at me like she did when I visited the farm each summer as a child.

Dad’s eyes are misty as he holds each relic and studies it carefully. Though it will be two more years before Dad dies of cancer, today he only knows that he is closer to the end of his life. His wife is miles away in a hospital, and he has to depend on me to visit her for him.

The photograph he is studying is one of the family in which he was raised. Each of his family members is healthy and young again. The majority of life’s hardships had not yet come their ways. Oh, to be back there once more with these loved ones surrounding him. All of them are dead except Tom and my dad. Maybe he will see the others face to face soon. “Is that how it works?“ he wonders. I can see that question in his eyes, too.

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