This short story was published in the San Diego Womens magazine. Read Publication
Three daughters, 48 states, one trailer, 14 years of my life. It feels like I am Peter Pan, who has forgotten about Neverland. A place that must be forgotten in order to keep it special. It’s been decades since we were those children here, and it’s been over a decade since I’ve seen or spoken to my Dad. But here he is, in a tiny black box. The river calling out to him, begging to sweep him away under its waves.
I sat on my knees in the middle of the field, halfway between the road and the river. It was very windy and very warm. The high grass surrounded me, and my hair tickled my shoulders as the wind whipped it into submission. I couldn’t seem to take another step, so I sat there for a moment, on my knees, in the hot sun, taking in what was about to happen. I wrestled with my thoughts as I held back the tears of the gravity of the situation. I clutched onto a small black box in my arms, holding it tightly to my chest. It all felt like such a loss, not just his death but also his life. It all felt so futile, and I was left with so many questions.
The river was only a few yards ahead of me. I could hear its rushing waters and the wind blowing through the leaves of the trees surrounding the river bank. I can feel that it wants to carry him down, swallow him whole, nourish its plants and trees. It wants to use his body to feed the flowers and the fish. It wants to transform his energy into growth. I feel a magnetic pull between his ashes that I’m clutching onto and the river in front of me.
I ask the river if there is some other way. But I know it must be done; he must go, and he can never return. I’ll never get a chance to see him again in this lifetime. Our relationship has ended the only way it could have. It was destined to end in sorrow and sadness. My father was a traveling preacher, singer, and the soul to whom I was karmically bound through five different lifetimes. Each lifetime plays different roles, holding onto eternal wounds, but always learning the same lessons and never seeing the bigger picture right before us.
My two older sisters, standing a few feet behind me, finally came and picked me up off the ground in a kind and supportive way, that only a sister can do. Arm in arm, we silently walked down to the river’s edge. The three of us all came to give his ash body away and say our final goodbyes to a man we didn’t even know anymore. A man we couldn’t bring ourselves to speak of for the last ten years.
We made our way down to the riverbank, and I decided to say a few words before releasing the box of ashes into the river. “Dad always seemed to have the idea that at the end of his life, there would be some moment like ‘Mr. Hollands Opus.’ A crowd just waiting to stand up and cheer. I don’t think he ever could have imagined that he would die all alone in a cold hospital bed with no one but a single nurse timing his last breath. Not even a friendly face. No one smiling down at him, holding his hand. Only masked faces. Only gloved hands.” I continued, “He was lucky enough to get an oxygen machine but unlucky enough to get COVID from a prayer meeting. Prideful, arrogant bastard.”
I took a moment to look at the river as I knelt down next to the water. My oldest sister Rachel chimed in, “He always had some grand concert going on in his brain. He was always busy writing a book or a song or telling a story that would never happen. I think he wanted someone to tell him he was important and that he meant something.” She continued, “He was starved for attention. He could never see his wife and three daughters standing side stage just cheering him on. Giving him all the love he could have ever needed. If only he could have accepted it,” she ended.
I’ve sat on every pew across this country except his funeral service pew. There never was one. There were, however, soft, warm breezes and the warm summer sun. Instead of cold creaks on hard benches and empty chapel sounds, we heard the happy birds and the flowing river stream at Coeur d’Alene River trailer park. Quiet, peaceful. There were few places where we made happy memories that weren’t torn apart by his anger. But Coeur d’Alene was one that always held a special place in all our hearts. A place we had returned to many times when we were younger. This time, we brought his ash body to the shore to say our goodbyes for the last time.
Just like Peter, who had forgotten all about the magic of Neverland, my sisters and I have forgotten this place. Our memories are covered with pain and sadness. We forgot the wonders of being free. We forgot what this place represented and who we were back then. We toured the country in a small trailer, all five of us: Mom, Dad, my two older sisters, and myself, the youngest of our bunch. “Bear Meat” is what they used to call me. I was always trailing so far behind everyone else. I guess I was just taking it all in, on my own time.
I grew up in trailer parks across the back roads of the United States, from Alaska to the Florida Keys. I learned how to line dance, and swim with the Snow Birds in West Arizona. I learned to ride my bike in the Badlands, and I went dog sledding in Alaska. I learned to fish with my Dad in the Florida Keys, and I played “tag” with the alligators strolling through the trailer parks in Louisiana. I found wonder and magic in everything. I had a connection to the universe and to nature. I saw its wonder and its beauty. I was not held down by school curriculum and schedules. I belonged to a different type of thought entirely. A compass that pointed in any direction my Dad chose. Which was any direction away from any normal type of society. My Dad would book a church meeting, and off we would go—church to church, state to state, all the way across the country for fourteen adventurous years.
Despite his crooked ways and monstrous heart, a good part of me came from him. The part of me that separates my sisters and me from the rest of society and binds us together in a special way. There is something so silent in the middle of nowhere that you almost can’t hear it. There are plenty of places along those roads that you can go and be totally alone, for miles and miles. Next to the river, or in a pasture, sitting up against that tree or walking that path, you can hear her if you listen close enough. She’s in the silence. The Earth’s breath comes slowly in and slowly out, just faint enough to brush up against her soul. Whether you’re an awakened soul or in the midst of your dark night, you can hear her and feel her. Your consciousness connecting to hers. I don’t hear it in the city. You must go to the empty places; you must walk in the untouched paths where only your senses think for you. The touch of the dirt beneath your feet, the sound of the wind and the birds, the smell of the trees and the grass. Close your eyes and feel her inside your heart. This is freedom, and there is magic in this forgotten place.
He taught me that; he showed me freedom, whether he meant to or not. He taught me not to conform to society. We would rather sleep out under the stars in an unfamiliar place than let our souls die under a blanket of smog surrounded by comfortable things. People owned “things”; we owned adventure.
We stood there on the river bank and opened the little black box. I released his ashes into the swiftly moving water. Some ashes immediately sank, and some started flowing away with the river current. He was returning back to the empty places, back into the Earth to be renewed again. He will start on his journey again. He will be recycled into a new body, kissed by the blessing of life that only Source can give. Perhaps he will start again in the future, perhaps in the past. But as I watched his ashes float away, I prayed that his next incarnation would not be what he deserved. I prayed for his mercy and that he could learn on the other side the very depths of our pain by watching not only just this current life, but all five of our lives that we have spent together.
I sat down with my sisters next to the river as we listened to his favorite songs. In my mind, I had so many questions. Will we replay these same roles again? Who will play the teacher, the victim, the monster? Will I see him again but not recognize him?
How do you close this gaping heart? This open wound is miles apart. There is no closure, only thoughts, memories of you covered in stain; only time will heal the pain.
This is a segment from Grace Fox’s upcoming book Astraea’s Prophecy: Torch & Lavender. To pre-order this book, please contact Grace at torchandlavender@gmail.com.
