Inhabiting a Life Lived

Smith, Whitney. 'Bridge, Hill, Tree.' 2006.

The flame flickers
of the candle I lit a short while ago
My father is dying and so I lit a small candle

I sit down to be silent for a little while
To reflect on a life lived for ninety-five years
to feel the emotion wash over

He is now so old
Though it makes death less of a shock
death seems no less a thief

A hard-scrabble youth, post-Depression
Navy combat during WWII, back home to marry the girl next door
Literally, the girl next door, who would become our mother

They hit Route 66 leaving the Midwest far behind
young, full of a brighter future
their car loaded up with a toaster and their few belongings

Not stopping till they reach the Golden Gate Bridge
Dad once told me that he turned to Mom as they stood looking out
on that grand bridge a world apart from the cornfields of Iowa

He asked her, “How’d you like to live here?”
Without hesitation she said, “Yes,” and they never looked back
Des Moines became their history, the Golden State their future

for the rest of both their long lives
Now he is dying, this hardworking man
who overcame hardship and the bottle

and their sad divorce many years in the future
Lucky enough to find love a second time, then widowed when she died
He is so ready now

Ready, he says, for God to take him
His body is tired, worn, used up
No more work to be done, nothing left to do before sunset

I sit quietly and the flame flickers
Time seems to stretch as I watch the candle, now burned down so low
Time feels different, death has no sense of time

No need for our linear calendar, arranged for our own convenience
and of our own design
Death, for me, changes time altogether, shifting it into a dimension of eternity

of spaciousness, something I cannot understand and am not meant to understand
And this person I love and who has loved me so devotedly
so fiercely, so unconditionally

becomes part of something else, something so vast that I cannot go there
The flame glows, orange and yellow and blue
right close to the wick

just above a growing melted pool of wax
Swaying slowly to its own rhythm
His breathing slows, his chest barely moving

A long, long life of hard work
of deep sadness and joy
Then the frailty, frustration, and vulnerability of old age

I stroke my father’s hands, now withered and bruised
his sunken face, his head with white wisps of hair soft as downy feathers
I whisper to him and imagine that he knows that it is me

by a slight turn of his face in my direction
though his eyes remain closed and he can no longer speak
I talk softly of family vacations of long ago in the mountains

memories now as real as this present moment with him
of fishing in wild and rushing streams, white clouds overhead in bright blue Sierra Nevada skies
Of Psalm 23 and the Lord’s Prayer, which I have trouble recalling word for word

Of love.

I feel an almost imperceptible draft of wind in the room
The window and door are closed

I look up, the candle flickers
and then dies

Why does it feel so sudden?

The chest now still
And all that remains is a wisp of smoke

curling upward.

Smith, Whitney. Fire and Smoke. 2021.

SUSANNE SEVEREID is an author and actor/presenter working in journalism, television and radio. Her books include When Someone You Love Is Dying: Some Thoughts to Help You Through and Mocha Musings: Reflections on Life, Love, and Chance Encounters. Susanne lives in Ashland, Oregon. View Susanne's site.