Leaving Seasons

I look out the windows that line the hallways outside of mine and Stuart’s bedrooms. Outside I can see the three labs' doghouses. You never let Dad turn them purely into hunting dogs; you never thought anyone should be lacking a little love in their life. You always laughed when Deuce would sit on top of his doghouse and peer inside at you. You always told me so on the phone when I couldn’t be with you.  You always thought he did it because he wanted to be seen by you.  I always have to.

Where they play, there is a tiny fountain with a little boy sitting atop it, who seems to me comes from a time before ours. In his minimal detail, partly because of make and partly due to the erosion that time brings to us all, he sits calmly perched. I can’t say for sure, but when I was half my current age or less, he was a fisherman. I don’t care to go close enough to inspect it now, but the way I see it in my memory is that he has a small gap between his fingers and his palm. Whoever spotted him without a pole would search the yard for a suitable stick out of the tree above.

It is a Japanese Red Maple.

We went to your memorial service yesterday. I think you were there. After we buried you, we went to the church. While waiting, in a room off to the side for your service to begin, we received a card. Your children, not the ones of us who have retained that title even in our mid 20’s, your Community Bible Study children, they pooled together enough money to buy a Japanese Red Maple for you.  For us.  Three days ago, when we went by your burial site, you know, that day when I would have to walk off every 5 minutes to wail and tell you that I miss you, Dad had an idea. Since there was a little extra space right next to where you rest and where Dad will one day rest, he wanted to plant a Japanese Red Maple.  

It is fall now, and red leaves bring tears to my eyes.