Silver, soil and spirit

The first time I saw my father was across a ravine. Skinny legs in muddy running shoes straining under the weight of a metal framed pack. Body bent forward and thumbs resting under his shoulder straps, he dipped and shuffled his way down the steep rooted path.

The father I could remember from a child, blocked out the sun with his stature. Warm skin and laughter as he threw me high into the sky. As I followed this wispy white-haired man from a distance, I had an aching realization of how much taller I was than he. A man as great as thunder reduced to sinew and work stains, muttering to himself as he wound his way to valley bottom floor.

Gundha, my mother died in November of 2017. Throughout my childhood we had lived on an acreage 20 miles East of Orono, Maine. My mother had been a professor at the state university for seven years before she had become pregnant. Well established in her career and comfortable in her daily routines, she managed to have a child and maintain her life of education and comfort. Her tenure afforded her the luxury of a year maternity as well as full time care for me as she navigated a life of mother, educator as well as researcher.

You cannot expect a 24-year-old student to become a full-time father. I sometimes suspect she took this young lover just to acquire a child with his beautiful hands and his sun ray smile. Though not often present, my father did surprise me with treats, stories and delight. I never knew when the long haired man with freckles and deep warm hugs would slip into an afternoon where we would share grilled cheese sandwiches and skip stones at the river. Then in time, my father stopped showing.

I sat with my mother in her last days. I held her hand and listened to her breath. Gundha always reminded me of a heron. Long fingers and small wrists becoming heron legs. Straight dark hair and an angular nose becoming the deep blue feathers, stalk still, her eyes following minnows with divine patience.

She could no longer talk and we sat watching the sun clock its way across the hospital linoleum. It was the time of day where the sun speckled the floor through maple tree leaves, that my mother motioned to the little black moleskin book I had bought her several weeks earlier in false hope she would still be able to write down her thoughts. I picked it up and gave it to her. The pages were crisp and unused. I sat quietly as I allowed her to struggle through putting pen to paper. What she gave me was my father’s address.

I did not try to find my father until the spring of 2018. Though my girls and husband wanted to come on the journey, I wanted to take this drive alone. I drove to Colorado. The address took me out of a small mining town, snaking slowly along a mountain road to a driveway that had the same number as that written by my late mother’s hand.

I followed the driveway until my two-wheel drive Volvo could no longer ford the ruts and loose rocks. I walked on until the road ended and a trail opened through a field and down into the forest.

I never let him see me as he hiked down the path. I walked slowly with intention not to make a noise. Bird calls and water clattering over rocks and logs filled the space between him and me. I had not been expecting to find a man so old. I wanted deep baritone exclamation of laughter. A hand holding, eye gazing reunion of blood and ties. Now that I was there, I wanted to drive back to the hotel, slip under the rough acrylic comforter and fall asleep to the jangling of the hallway ice machine.

But after time, he turned around and he found a woman who looked like himself with her hands trailing in the ferns.

I introduced myself while he took off his ball cap and held it in his hands as if to formalize our meeting. We walked the rest of the way to his cabin. I told him of my teenage daughters and our dog. I talked of my work, the ongoing renovations to our home and of my husband. He told me of the Mallard duck he had rescued. He spoke of the Aspen trees and how they are actually one living organism. He explained how the wisps of clouds above spoke of rain coming in a day.

He asked of my mother and I told him how she had passed away after a long struggle with cancer. He told me how much he had appreciated her intelligence and was always thankful for her allowing him to have a sense of community in her presence. I didn’t ask him to explain.

Before I left, we walked to a marsh where the evening sun fell in a golden blanket over the spring green. He wanted me to hear the frogs. We stood together in the field, almost touching and listened.

As we walked back, he asked me to stop and wait. I stood watching the valley change from day to dusk as my father leaned into the bushes and disappeared. I saw the shadows bed down over the long grass. The birds returning to the trees in a sleepy hush as my father returned with a slightly rusted coffee can shouldering traces of damp earth

. “Give this to your daughters from me, “ he said. I took the coffee can, so surprisingly heavy. Our hands touched then. “Okay, thank you I will, “ I replied .

“Okay then. Okay, “were his farewell words as he turned away from me towards his cabin.

I didn’t look back. The ground in the forest was still heavy with the spring day heat. My feet felt swollen and my heart tired. The floral pattern on my shirt was covered in dark soil as I had to hold the can tight to my chest due to it’s weight. The forest broke free into fields and the fields changed into gravel road. I sat down next to my Volvo and opened the coffee can, breaking the plastic coffee lid by doing so.

Inside the can were commemorative silver coins. They ranged in size, but they were mostly all silver. A few coins dating back before my father’s life. There was a note folded down the side of the can. “These coins are worth approximately 20,000 USD as per appraisal in 2016.”

The note was not signed.

I spread the coins into my lap. The sharp smell of metal and the clink of their weight grounding me into the warm earth below. Then one by one, I placed them carefully back into their container. I cracked apart the plastic lid, placing it on top of the coins and note. The container sat at the foot of the passenger seat as I reversed multiple times into the bushes, slowly turning the car down the drive way. I headed for home.