The Tree

He's buried under that tree. We planted it the week after his funeral, knowing he would love to rest under its shade.

My father's return home was as big a shock as his exit twenty years before. I had stopped by mom's to feed the chickens and found him in the barn, staring out at the fields. He heard my approach but didn't turn around, he just said, "You put up a new fence" as his greeting.

I didn't respond at first, being baffled by his sudden reappearance. He seemed shorter, smaller, undeniably fragile. His voice was lower than I remember but the rich, clear quality was unmistakable.

Finally finding my voice, I said, "Hello to you too". He turned then, smiled and simply said, "Peaches" which had been his pet name for me all those years ago.

His hair was cut close, mostly bald. His face, a road map of creases and wrinkles. He wore a tan button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His jeans were just the other side of dirty. The boots were new, shiny black with tan stitching and fresh soles. It was an odd contrast.

I finally asked, "What's going on?" He stood staring out at the fields he'd worked for ten short years, either trying to remember or to imagine what he'd missed.

"Is your mom here?" he asked quietly. I turned my head and stared out at the same fields, "No dad, she passed two weeks ago." He turned and walked out of the barn.

My mind tumbled over, wondering what he wanted - was it money, the land, the house? Why was he here and why now? I jogged to catch up with him. Where did he think he was going? He turned down the driveway toward the county road. I reached him as he turned west towards town.

"Where are you going?" I asked, trying not to sound winded or like I wanted him to stay.

"I just came to say good-bye. I'm too late", he said, glancing back at the house.

So that's it? Twenty years and no conversation, no inquiries or apologies? This man I've wished for all of my life has nothing more to say? I was getting more furious by the minute. He just looked old and defeated.

"I'm dying, Peaches. I just came to see her. I owed her that." He said it more to his shiny new boots than to me.

"You're dying. Of what?" I asked with as much sarcasm as I could muster.
"Liver", was all he said. I didn't know if it was cancer or sclerosis, it really didn't matter. I wished I hadn't seen him in the barn.

He turned to face me. "I don't want anything from you. I know I've done wrong by you. I always meant to come back. That's all, it just never worked out. I can't explain it and I don't expect you to forgive it." He nodded and walked away.

The county coroner called me three days later. My father had passed away at the old mission two towns away. My brothers and I agreed he should be buried on the property, just above the house. We planted the tree the following week. To this day, we joke about finally having him home. Who was he? Why couldn't he stay? We've stopped trying to figure it out. He didn't expect our forgiveness and we won't give it.


Bobaloo