Village Squire, 1976-10, Page 23the imminence of my death and the only,one
who has not let it change his attitude towards
me. He helped me put my affairs in order. He
will be the children»' guardian after my death
- and my sister Beth, if anything should
happen to him. There will be adequate
insurance money to keep Mrs. Quentin the
housekeeper, money to see the children
through college - but who will be there to
settle their petty quarrels, to encourage their
faltering attempts at life, to approve the first
beau? Certainly not gruff, practical Mathew.
He will, 'cannot, understand my futile
rejection of death - for he is old. Death will be
just one short completing step for him.
"It's getting cool," I profer. "We'll
probably get more rain. Are you nearly
finished?"
"No, but the apples will still be here
tomorrow. I'll he up for supper soon." He
turns his back to me in dismissal and I wonder
again at our lack of ability to communicate.
• This man, my father, is as much a stranger as
ever.
I excused myself after supper and drove
down to the village. I wandered through the
streets aimlessly, with the feeling that I was
being observed. People I scarcely knew
stopped to pass the time of day with me, each
face wore that same look of commiseration.
News travels fast in a small town. The young
priest who had replaced old Father Jarrott
was sitting on the church steps across the
street. I have never been a deeply religious
man but the need for communication was
strong. I crossed the street.
"Father - I'm not of your faith but 1 need
someone to ,alk to.—
. "Of course. Sit down, won't you."
"I'm dying Father. I don't know how to tell
my children. How can I help them to accept it,
when the time comes?"
"How can you help them if you don't
accept it yourself?"
I wondered'hriefly how he could sense that
and suddenly anger welled up within me,
anger at his youth and air of knowingness and
anger because it was the truth. I was
fourty-four years old. What had my living on
earth for forty-four years accomplished? In a
few short years I would be forgotten, as
forgotten as if I'd never been.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't mean to
sound sanctimonious. Dying is such a
personal thing. Each of us must prepare for it
in his own way. Are you close to your
children?"
"Yes," I answered, during the summer we
had become entangled more intimately than
ever.
"Then somehow I know you'll work it out."
I went home to find the kids preparing for
bed. The deep, even breathing sounds from
Mathew's room told me he was already
sleeping.
"Daddy," said Katie as she brushed her
copper hair to bronze, "We have to write a
poem for English. It has to be something we
feel - something deep "
"Have you started it yet?"
"No. I have a few ideas but they're no
good. It takes me a long time to find the right
idea. I've so many to go through."
"You want to tell me about some of them?"
"Well - I get to thinking about things like
clouds, stars, the wind and I think about how
small I am - and what I'm going to do and will
it matter to anyone." Here was my child
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VILLAGE SQUIRE/OCTOBER 1976, 21