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As the taxi leaves, my father stands at the
living room window looking out, watching me move off into the darkness, at 4:30 a. m. His grey hair is untidy from
sleeping.
Moments ago, he got up to carry my bag for
me and went into the cold open air.
He thanked me for a daughter's cooking and
for having traveled so far to spend the holiday with him. I told him that I
worried about he would feel lonely again in the empty house.
"I have my plans," he said, in
the moments before I walked out the door.
When I arrived 10 days ago, I felt it was
quiet and lifeless in the house. Then my brothers and I came and filled the
rooms. But, now, they're gone, I am the last to leave.
As the taxi began to move, I watched the
lights go off, but my father didn't leave. Even though he couldn't see me in
the dark, he stood by the window watching, beside the tree. It was a fresh
tree. He buys one every year for the new year.
The life is hard for my father: my mother
died years ago, and now his children are far from home, our selfish choices taking us from one end
of the country to the other, the life of the tree, cut for Christmas, is short;
my father's is long and strong. But both of them are tall and straight.
I leave behind two trees: one with
silver-grey hair, the other still freshly green.
