Precious Moments

         




"It's a beautiful morning," Jeff Parker marveled to himself. He sat in his rocking chair, gazing out the window to the cloudless sky and the dazzling sun. This will be a wonderful day, he thought. His brown eyes fell upon the bright yellows roses bordering the red stone walk that led to the front door.

Tears rolled down his bristly cheeks, the kind that fell at weddings, or when babies are born. Today was one of those times. Quickly, his stubby fingers brushed the crystal tears away. Glancing at the clock above the fireplace, he smiled, knowing time was near.
He stood up, perhaps too quickly. His living room suddenly became a merry-go-round. He grasped one arm of the rocking chair while his right knee began throbbing. He endured this condition since Rich's departure.

As always, his ailment passed. He lacked concern to whatever illness transpired and concluded, as he did on previous occasions that a small shot of bourbon would be the best remedy. Later, he would double the shot with a glass of beer. "What the hell!" he mused. "This is a day of celebration."

He walked across the room, kicking pages of newspapers and empty liquor bottles that cluttered the living room carpet.

"Beth would give me a swift kick in the pants if she saw the place like this," he sighed.

Eight years had passed since she went home to the Lord. He swallowed the lump that formed in his throat. The pain never stops, he thought, nor does the tears ever dry.

"I have no time to be moping around," he moaned, taking a soiled shot glass from the pile of scummy dishes that were lying in the sink. He reached into the cabinet, pulled out half of the bottle of bourbon, and began pouring into the shot glass.

"I have to clean this joint up. Richard is coming home today. I'm going to give this place the royal treatment, the way Beth would have welcomed our son from Iraq."

Mr. Parker gulped down his drink then another. He kept telling himself that he would clean the house as soon as he quenched his thirst. However, on his fifth glass, Mr. Parker instead returned to his living room and sat down in his rocking chair. He stared toward the picture of his son on the mantel above the fireplace. More tears clouded his eyes as memories shrouded his thoughts.

He tried so very hard to be a mother and father to Richard after Beth had succumbed to Bone Cancer.
Rich was only twelve when she died and was very close to her. His life took a deep plunge as if he had dove into cold dark waters, struggling to resurface. He ate mostly peanut butter, jelly sandwiches maybe some crackers, and soup now and then. Some days, he just did not eat at all. After school and on weekends, he would go into his room and closed the door, staying away from his friends. Kayla, the girl next door with curly blond hair, had a crush on him. She, like many others, tried helping Rich unlock the cell he had imprisoned himself, but even she could not wipe his sadness away.

One Saturday morning, a year after Beth's death, Mr. Parker walked into the kitchen where Rich was sitting at the table munching a slice of toast. Mr. Parker smiled.

"I got tickets for today's Cubs' game with the Cardinals." He showed his son the two box tickets. Mr. Parker remembered that it had been four years since they attended a game. He reminisced over the sparkles in Richard's eyes. The boy was eight and even tucked the stubs in his pocket. Richard shook his head and chomped down on another piece of the toast.

"But Rich," Mr. Parker said excitedly, "I got Mr. Reynolds to mind the store. I thought, you and I take in a game and go for pizza afterward. You know, we could pal around."

Rich smirked at that last remark.

Jeff lowered his chin. He knew throughout Rich's life that he never took the time to play with him or take him to a movie. Mr. Parker saw the sneer on his son's face and realized that his kid did not want to start now.

"I know the store keeps me busy. I am not always, around even when your mother was here. I know I missed a lot of your little league games and school plays, but one has to sacrifice for the compensation of having a nice home, a good school for his son, as well as food to eat and clothes."

The boy sat silently. He stared at his glass of milk, oblivious to his father's words. His young world had been shattered, smothering under a shroud of darkness.

"You can't stop living," dad said.

"Life is not the same without mom." The tears dripped down his cheeks.

"I know." Mr. Parker's voice cracked. "Your mother showed us the courage and strength that she endured during her long months of suffering. I believe she wants us to do the same during our days ahead."

The boy gulped down his milk then pushed his chair away from the table. He stood up, sauntered to his room, and closed his door without ever saying a word.

During the next few years, Rich drowned himself in his studies. He banished all forms of social activities and rarely watched television or listened to the radio. His academics triumphed over the pain piercing his heart. A day never lapsed when his mother would fill his thoughts with laughter and tears with the hope of reuniting with her once more.

In high school, Rich received top honors in marksmanship as a member of the ROTC. His scholastic achievements presented opportunities of applying to colleges of his choice, but the blight of 9/11 employed him into seeking another venture, the United States Army.
Mr. Parker suddenly interrupted his thoughts by the tingling of golden chimes signifying an hour remained before his son will be back in his arms. Of course, they remained distant during his son's grooming years. Nevertheless, Mr. Parker insisted things would be different.

His eyes peered toward the mantel. He saw the photograph of Rich dressed in his army uniform. His son stood tall with his deep blue eyes and a sparkling smile, standing in front of the helicopter that he piloted.

A day did not pass when Mr. Parker boasted to everyone about his courageous son traveling through the imminent danger Iraq, and every night he prayed for his son's safe return.
Just then, his smile vanished. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he drowned in a sea of guilt. Too many gray yesterdays, he thought.

Promises were broken. He remembered the many times he canceled the trips to the park with Rich. The number of birthdays' parties he missed. I am doing it for the family.{/i} He convinced himself always believing his business establishment was the core to not only his happiness but also those around him. Things will be different. Mr. Parker smiled. Anxiously, he waited to tell Rich that he sold his hardware store and to begin sharing time together.
Life always has another spring, Mr. Parker thought, a season of planting and nurturing. With gleaming eyes, he realized his spring would finally come.

Moved by a burst of thunder, Mr. Parker looked out the window. Cumulus clouds rolled across the sky. Tree branches hammered against the siding of the house like a flash of lightning illuminated the dark sky.

He had to clean the house. He did not want his son coming home to a pigsty. He laughed, deciding to give the place a "spit & shine," at least that what Beth called it, cleaned the house well enough to be presentable, and then she gave it a thorough cleaning every week. Mr. Parker, however, did a spit and shine only when it pleases him.

He walked into the kitchen. Like a mad hatter, He scrubbed down the greasy dishes that lay in the sink for the past five days. Then, he wiped down the marble countertops with a dirty sponge and swept the hardwood floor that had more dirt than a football field. The living room looked like a tornado hit it. He collected the newspapers and magazines that were scattered across the floor. He then swooped up the breadcrumbs with a dust buster that he dropped weeks ago.

Feeling exhausted and proud of his dapperness, Mr. Parker pulled a porcelain cup from the cabinet and filled it to the rimmed with some Kentucky Bourbon. Savoring the amber liquid rushing his throat, Parker heard the doorbell.
With a burst of delight, he knew the time has arrived. He put the cup into the sink and raced to the door.

He placed his meaty hand on the brass knob. His hand was shaking. It has been three years since their last meeting. How should I greet him? He wondered. A simple handshake will suffice, realizing his son went away as a boy and came back as a man.
Then, he shook his head. No matter how his son reacts, Parker was going to wrap his arms him, kiss him on the cheeks and tell his son how much he loved him.

He brushed away his tears and opened the door. His life suddenly became a blur.

The young man at the door was neatly dressed in his military uniform. Stripes ran down his sleeves. Medals decorated his left breast pocket of his shirt. He held a yellow envelope.

Adjacent to the solider, there stood Rev. Boyle, pastor of the church where Mr. Parker worshiped.

"Jeff, perhaps we better go inside," Rev. Boyle said stoically.

Hours passed before Parker opened his watery eyes. He sat on his recliner. A thin blue blanket covered him from his shoulders to his stocking feet. His family and friends gathered around him. Some smiled wanly. Others were wiping their tears. They wrapped their arms around him, offering their condolence as he stood up and sauntered to his son's room.

He stepped into the cold dark room. Since the day his son departed for service, Parker had no reason to visit the room. He switched the light on and saw pictures of a young boy fishing, hugging his mother, and riding a pony. They were all such pleasant memories, but there was one above all. He looked towards the dresser. On the landing, there was a small golden picture frame that held two stubs. Tears rolled down his cheeks. His whimpers became screams. The lump lodged in his throat became difficult to swallow. Spring had suddenly changed into a perpetual winter. Parker clutched the frame, a remembrance of the precious moment he once shared with his son.