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Sliced Moon
I called my Dad late Saturday night, after a date -- the first in too
long
that I've wanted to linger, but instead let go to hover over my head
with
the perfect sliced moon -- and feeling like a worn cliche, I asked
my
father if he too thinks Mom may now have some kind of special pass
through the unreal, some way to slip unseen between me and my Saturday
night. But really I didn't care; I just wanted to hear her name out
loud. And Dad -- the king of restraint -- took the conversation down
to the cemetery and talked about the excellent sprinkler system; told me
how the grass has now grown evenly all around so that Mom's and Grandma's
resting dress look perfectly matched in eternal Spring; and how at his
last visit, especially, he noticed this flawless grass was freshly mowed.
These are the words of solace my father speaks; his is an emotion of practical
comforts. And this -- all of this unsentimental effort so naturally
spun -- and the fact of his 80th year -- and the freshly sliced memory
of a moon-glazed night -- moved me to forgive his overlooking my birthday
this once.
Copyright 2001, DJ Gaskin
DJ Gaskin's essays, nonfiction and poetry have appeared in a variety
of
publications; she has short fiction pending publication; and is at
work on
her first novel. By day, DJ is an employee communications manager,
by
night a Moon Child. She lives in a treehouse in Burke, Virginia.
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