Remembering

Remembering...

He laid on the riverbank with his arms folded behind his head. A fishing pole leaning on a forked stick he had stuck in the ground next to him. The line was attached to an old red and white bobber his Dad had given him.

Even though he had come there to fish, he now just laid there staring at the passing clouds overhead. He often came here to fish, but on this day, he came there to be alone.

As he picked out animals in the clouds passing by, he remembered back to the time his Dad and taken his brother and their friend, Steve, camping for the weekend. He never could understand why his Dad always called him Stephen. They fished and talked about guy things and ate fish cooked over an open fire. He must have been ten or eleven then.

It had only been a couple of years since then, but lying there now, it seemed so unreal, like some kind of clouded dream. Everything seemed unreal since that day. He tried hard not to think about it.

He rose to his elbows, just in time to see a doe and her fawn slip quietly through the high grass on the other side of the bank. Watching the deer pass, he thought back to the time his father had taken him deer hunting with him. He was too young to carry a gun, so he just walked along. They talked about how the deer fed and how to look for tracks.

It was a time that seemed to stop time. He wished now that he could go back in time, back before that day. Again he tried hard not to think about it.

He sat up so that his legs crossed Indian style in front him. He wasn't really thinking of anything at this point, just kind of staring at his bobber in the water.

His bobber going under the water and then reappearing broke his trance. He quickly reached for his fishing pole and jerked hard. He felt the fish at the other end and after a brief struggle, the fish was gone.

He just sat there with his broken line floating on top of the water. He thought again about that day and thought how quickly things can change.

He leaned his fishing pole back on the forked stick. His broken line still floating on the water top.

He stood up and started to walk along the path that ran along the river's edge. He paused and looked back at his pole and thought it should be safe there. He uses to think everything was safe, but that was before that day.

He turned and continued to walk. He tried hard not to think about that day, but that made it even worse.

He tried to think about the days he and his cousin Mike, use to hunt squirrels next to the river. They would get up early on Saturday mornings and spend the day climbing up and down the hill that grew from the river's banks.

It was Mike who was there after that day. It was Mike who said, "At least he would be there" when everyone else was saying "It was better that he died, than live with the stroke".

He started to run up the hill. He didn't know why, maybe to run from those words or maybe just to run from that day.

He finally stopped when he reached where the grass turned to rocks, just below the top. He turned to look at the fields below. His eyes now filled with tears.

He wiped the tears away with sleeve of his shirt and watched a fox in the field looking for mice. Again, he just stared, not really thinking of anything. He didn't want to think. He slowly turned and started to climb to the top.

They called this rock "Friendship". It was at the very top of the hill and over looked his small hometown. He never knew why they called it Friendship, he doesn't think anyone does. He had climbed to top many times over the years, but this time was different.

When he reached the top, he walked out to the edge and sat down. He pulled his knees tight to his chest and held them with his arms.

He didn't allow himself to think. Instead he listened to the birds fly through the trees below him. He watched the chipmunks' play between the rocks near his feet. He watched a Red Tail Hawk fly overhead and watched a snake sunning itself in the warm afternoon sun.

Even though the sun was warm, he felt cold, he felt alone...

When he finally could look at the small town below. He could see the lumber yard his Dad use to work at and where he would go after school to see him.

Just a block away was the house where his Dad use to live. It's white and small and had only one bedroom. His Dad had moved there after the divorce.

Close to his Dad's old house was the gas station where his Dad would meet his friends after work and play cards. It was the place where it had happened.

Tears again filled his eyes, but this time he didn't bother to wipe them away.

Through tear-blurred eyes, he could see the house where he lived. The place where Mr. Olson had come to and told them that something was wrong.

It was this day he has tried so hard not to think of. It was now the day he can never forget.

He remembers the hospital with its' quiet hallways, the uneasy feeling and not really knowing what was going on.

He remembers the funeral and his Dad lying there, not being able to look at his face, just staring at his hands. By not looking at him, made it somehow not to be true.

He just sat there with his knees still pulled tightly to his chest, bowed his head and cried....


....It has been years since he has climbed that hill and sat at the top or walked the path that runs along the river. But in his mind, it is as if time has stood still. He's still that little boy running from that day and asking why? He sees others with their fathers and wonders why? Why his is not with him today. Even now has he types these words and stares at his father's picture on his desk, he can still smell the smoke from his pipe and hear his laugh. There has been so many times that he has talked to his picture and wished that he could answer when he needed answers. As he now closes in on his father age of that dreadful day, he realizes how young his father really was. He thinks to himself, it just isn't fair.


In Loving Memory

Leslie R. Gillett
Feb 26, 1935 - Feb 2, 1976

Daniel C. Gillett/March 2000