by Heather Anne McIntosh
I arrive at the old cemetery at dusk, exactly one year since I last saw you. I am surrounded by Sequoia trees, dwarfing me, reaching for the sky with their thick brown trunks. The rusty black gate is propped open and the sun hovers over the far ridge, the sky pink behind the stretched white cotton of clouds. I force my legs to walk towards you. My eyes are focused on the large Juniper tree which stands alone on the far side. Its branches reach out to me and I can almost smell its spicy green scent.
I remember the first time you pointed out a Juniper to me. We had walked for hours and were deep in the forest. Your smile glowed in the reddish light. Junipers were your favorite tree, you said, because of their sweet smell and because they were always reaching high, never giving up in their quest to touch heaven. Some things that seem impossible sometimes are not, you said, your eyes telling me things about mysteries and struggles and succeeding in unexpected ways.
As I walk the worn cemetery path, I hear gravel and dirt moving under my feet and the sound seems strangely foreign in this place. Under the Juniper tree I see your grave, a rectangle of dirt and crabgrass surrounded by small gray stones. Although shadows surround the spot like ghosts, the rectangle is filled with the fading light of the sun.
When I dream of you now, I see narrow trees on a cool summer day, poking their tips through the clouds. I hear the crunching of pine needles and feel their texture under my feet as we walk and walk, slowly and quietly with no purpose but each other. Above us the sky opens, wrapping itself around the steep slopes like a ribbon, stretching narrow then wide and I see you, your face smooth and pink, your eyes shiny and wide and looking at me. I hear your voice and its melody wraps itself around me like a soft blanket. The sound of our laughter mixes with bird noise and crickets and wind rustling through the branches as we talk and are amused at the world. You smile - your eyes clear and deep like lake water, and although I hardly notice, I am at ease, filled with warmth, energized.
I stoop before your grave and stare at the letters and dates on the bronze plaque we so carefully picked out. Your name, your birthday and of course the day you left this world stare back. I think back to one of my earliest memories of you. I was lying in bed late at night listening to music playing downstairs. What was odd was that there was no talking, just the up and down sound of the instruments, which made me wonder. I snuck down the stairs, peeked around the corner to see you and mom in each other’s arms dancing. Up and down in straight lines across the living room carpet you went, your feet tapping and jumping in perfect time with the beat, Mom’s hair and skirt floated around her as she spun around, never letting go of your hand.
I keep these memories like old stones in a wooden box, fingering each one, surrounding its smooth surface with my hands, memorizing its shape and smell and weight.
Now I bend towards the earth, your earth, and lay myself down on its surprising warmth. I breathe in the sour scent of mountain dirt and brush my hands over soft grass and little pieces of gravel. My trembling arms are finally still.
I close my eyes and think back to our dance on my wedding day. You, the proud father of the bride in your black tuxedo with the tartan bowtie. You were on a mission to teach me to dance. Properly, like a lady.
“Never look down,” you said. “Always look straight ahead. And smile.” As you spoke my legs became tangled in yours yet again. “Don’t look down!” And then you’d smile, the sly sideways smile that crept over your face, starting with your lips and ending with your eyebrows. My feet were a tangle of nervous movement.
“Honey, just be glad that you have a long dress.” You said, looking at me with your secret smile. After it was over you reluctantly pulled away, handing me over to the world.
I think of you under all this earth, and in my mind your body is whole again. Lean and long and filled with muscle. Your skin glows and your eyes glitter in this fading forest light. You are standing under this Juniper tree smiling at me, your arms outstretched, your feet already moving to the rhythmic beat of crickets and branches in the wind.
“Can I have this dance, my dear?” you say, your arms raised high. I stand—my body limber and quick, bowing to you and reaching out for your hand.
Yes, let’s dance.
(order the book here: My Dad Is My Hero: Tributes to the Men Who Gave Us Life, Love, and Driving Lessons )
