milkweed

My mood today has been strangely stable. I have not had to rebuild after a devastating attack of self-torment. I can suddenly feel my future stabilizing. The lines of fate spreading from the present appear less torturous and knotted than those stretching into the past. I have not suffered a wave of sorrow regarding Eliza. Perhaps this is because I understand her reasons for calling things off. Perhaps I finally trust that she and I will one day be together, regardless of how much I want it to happen immediately. Perhaps I have finally stopped trying to control the future, and have come to terms with the fact that things will happen as they are supposed to happen.
Just a few weeks after my father passed away, I now inhabit his country estate, a verdant valley packed full of deer, frogs, hawks, and all manner of insects. A thousand different shades of green assault the eye each morning. Buzzing, clicking, and chirping insects fill the air with constant sound. The good dark earth parts easily under my spade. The stream, clear, swift, and full of tiny living things, gurgles twenty feet from the front porch. The light blue paint curls and chips off the pine shingles, and a small bush is growing out of the rain gutter over the rear patio.
I am separating the wheat from the chaff, the things of emotional or material value from the detritus accumulated over time. My father was a child of war rationing. His house is full of things that would be useful if the world went to shit tomorrow. The barn is full of tools and books for planting and maintaining crops. The .22 rifle, with scope, is lovingly oiled, a box of bullets nearby. His ashes sit in his bedroom, fifteen feet from where I now sit. I have placed his flag and Navy officer’s cap atop the small but heavy wooden box, something I think he would like. I miss him dearly, more than I ever thought I would. I still expect him to come through the front door, or come stumbling out of the bathroom in his robe, but those memories will fade with time.
When I moved here at the end of last year, a single milkweed had sprouted from under the concrete in front of the basement door. My father explained what the plant did, and made it clear that it was not to be disturbed. Today, after rebuilding my modest wattle-and-backfill dam across the stream, I stopped to examine the plant. What started as a small plant not four feet tall has grown into two stalks eight feet high, each sporting numerous healthy pods. A bit of movement caught my eye. On closer inspection, I discovered five Monarch butterfly caterpillars lazily drinking sap, their tails wiggling every so often. I take this as a final nod from my father. This is his last gift to me, the glorious transformation of these small wriggling things into stately masters of the air, right on my doorstep. I will monitor their progress. I will protect the plant, and when they depart, I will rejoice as their red and black wings bearing my father’s soul to rest in heaven.
Requiescat in pace, GHWR. X