My Father's Image

1939

My mother is all in black: shoes, stockings, silk dress and borrowed hat with a thick veil. At the funeral, the minister, who did not know my father, rambles on and in a prayer says: "This tragedy, which has struck this town of 30,000 people, Lord! . . . "

I almost laugh, thinking, "29,999 at this moment, God . . . "

2004

My mother does not let me forget that I almost laughed at my own father's funeral. Years later she forgave me, I suppose, by saying to a neighbor, while looking at me: "You know, people sometimes laugh instead of crying. It's the worst kind of grief."

1940

In college I take two classes in horseback riding: the dressage class taught by an old cavalry officer and the trail riding taught by his daughter. Deep in the woods she leads the class down a steep incline, over a creek and up a sharper incline. My horse, Rusty, who before today has seemed to have five legs, refuses the reins and jumps from one steep bank to the other. The instructor says, "Good going!" and points out to the other riders how beautifully I kept my seat. I am inexplicably sad all day and depressed throughout the week.

2004

Why did I not see why I worked afternoons in a grocery store cutting rotten spots out of cabbages to earn the money for horseback riding? Why did I not see that I was crushed because my father had not seen me take that leap?

1946

Mills and I are home from the war; he is now a well-known professional portrait photographer. The first thing he does is take an Eastman Color photograph of the oil painting he did of my father. He has the copies framed in expensive Italian frames to give to each member of the family. I keep mine in a footlocker that goes back to UNC with me. I do not hang it in my room.

2004

The photographs, too, are almost life-size, and I am thankful the eyes do not follow me about the room, but rather seem to be staring at a point just beyond my shoulder. Did my brother want our father to be forever gazing over our shoulders at things that we cannot see?

1966-1969

I have, at the birth of both my sons, declared that I would tell them every day at a time when I was most aware, and totally sincere, that I love them. And as they learn to make sentences, they tell me they love me.

2004