Tear-Stained Memory

Spring has rolled around. Cool. crisp breezes float off the river and cool the skin

where the sun has made hot with persistent shining rays. The rays that don't make contact with the

skin are content in reflecting off the river, as if admiring their beauty in one of nature's mirrors. Birds

and bugs alike sing in one great harmonious voice.

"What's the matter with Daddy's baby girl?"

"Nothin' Daddy. Are the fish ever going to bite?"

"Now Baby Girl, you have to be patient and quiet if you really want to catch a fish."

"Okay, Daddy."

It was just another lazy Sunday afternoon. Mom was working at the Pantry, and

Daddy and I were lounging around the river bank. I would sit still for about an hour and then I

would go exploring in the woods. Daddy would stay and watch the fishing poles or he would come

with me. Sometimes we would be treasure hunters looking for gold. Other times we were

investigators looking for clues to a murder-mystery. There were always days when the heat would

make us both lazy and we would just sit by the river and have rock skipping contests. Daddy

always seemed to beat me; even when I would throw a rock while his back was turned, and tell

him I had skipped it the farthest.

When Daddy and I weren't fishing, we were boat riding. I loved fishing with

Daddy, and I loved riding around in the big red boat. The radio would be set to the Beaver. And,

there would be a cooler full of bologna sandwiches and sodas in the rear of the boat. Daddy would

be driving and I would be throwing things over the side. My favorite game was trying to throw

sticks and rocks in front of the boat and watching us zoom by them. Most of the rocks and sticks

ended up on the front of the boat though. Sunday's were my favorite because it was the day

Daddy and I got to spend time together.

Six years later, I found out my favorite fishing partner had cancer, not just one type

of cancer, but several. The girl I used to be grew up faster than she should have because she was

losing her best friend. I remember the night that my sister, Leslie, told me that the doctors didn't

give my father through the night to live.

In the corridor, I saw all of my relatives so I knew that this wasn't some cruel joke.

Aunts and uncles were hugging me so tightly that my chest began to ache. My legs felt like jello so I

made my way to a corner where no one could see me. My eyes were heavy with the tears that I

refused to show my relatives. I lay down on the floor and rocked myself as the tears rolled down

my cheeks.

"Why are these people here? These people haven't thought to call or write or

anything the whole time he was sick, but now that he is dying, they all come to watch." Hatred built

up, and I was discovered in my little corner by Shirley Blancett.

She dragged me to the door of my dad's room and said, "Stop crying and go show

your daddy you're here for him. Go in and see him."

What I saw at the tender age of twelve was my once strong, tall, and handsome

father fighting to breathe in an oxygen tent. Tubes were running into every available vein in both

arms. Nurses and doctors were surrounding him, trying to change the bandage on his back where

they had drained fluid from his one remaining lung. I had nightmares for several months after I saw

my father reduced to a bag of deteriorating bones in an oxygen tent. My eyes were full of tears, but

through the tears I saw my father smiling at me. Then, I ran from the room, and I never went back.

The unforgettable memory still makes me cry.

The funeral was nice; everyone was at Smith's Funeral Home and then later on at

Little Muddy Cemetery for the burial. My little brother didn't go to the funeral because he was too

little to go. Mom wanted her privacy with Daddy, too. I was at the funeral physically, but mentally

I don't know where I was. All I could think about was that he was gone; I would never see him

again. I would never get to spend another Sunday at the river with him again, or anything. Then I

got mad, mad at everything and everyone. My uncle tried to help me into the car after the

ceremony, but I pushed him away. I told him I didn't need anyone babying me or looking after me.

I told him that he should be more worried about the fact that my father was about to be put in the ground.

The things I experienced when my dad had cancer greatly affected me, the trips to

see him in the hospital when he was getting chemotherapy treatments, the mood swings, watching

his full head of jet black hair fall out by the hand fulls. It was awful watching my strong father turn

into someone I didn't know and someone I was afraid of. the worst thing that happened was

watching him die right before my eyes. A once trusting, happy, and outgoing child turned into a

reserved and pessimistic teenager.

Looking at a picture of my dad, I think back and hear the conversation at the river.

"Daddy! Daddy, look my line's moving! I got a fish Daddy!"

"You sure did. You got a little blue gill. You'll be a better fisherman than me one of

these days."

"Daddy, can we throw him back in? I don't want his family to miss him."

The cool summer breeze blows as the birds and bugs sing the fish a farewell song,

and the sun lights a pathway home.