The first rustling was high in the boughs of the oak tree on the south side of our home. It moved to the nearby pine, then swooped down along the umbrels of the climbing hydrangea before weaving its way through the Chinese dogwood. In this night wind, I felt the distinct presence of my father, and I can’t quite explain why. The breeze moved from the dogwoods through the ferns, then back up through the highest branches of the seven sons flower tree, and then it disappeared for a bit.
I went back to my impromptu dip of night-swimming, diving under where the water was gloriously warm after the cool night air. Then the wind came back again – starting in the oak and the pine, then skipping right over to the stand of Green Giant thuja, and the other seven sons flower tree. It was a playful night wind, slightly teasing and humorous in the way it flitted from tree to plant and then dissipated altogether before bounding back like an overzealous dog.
Right above the pool, the Big Dipper carried its portion of the sky – at least I think it’s the Big Dipper. The only memory fragments left from my college Astronomy course consist of this tale of the guy who said ‘fag’ in front of me. Actual astronomy items of useful information have long ago fallen away.
Winking from behind the trees, a half-moon played hide-and-seek as I swam into the deep end of the pool. Again, I felt my father’s presence – in the moonlight, in the stars, in the idea of all the space between where I was and where he might be.
My father has been on my mind lately, as the fast approach of summer rekindles the atmosphere and environment of that scary section of the year in which he declined for the last time. Yet on this night, I didn’t feel scared. I didn’t feel sad. I felt his presence and I felt comforted.
Also, I still miss him.
