Wednesday, July 30, 2008
The afternoon his breathing grew brief and labored I walked here when I was past the point of breaking because didn't want him to hear my tears break through as I read him the day's paper.
Just out of view is Three Tree Point where my father grew up, where my grandparents built their house and raised their children.
Tonight the weather is mild and the sunset is lighting up the far peaks of Rainier; there's a breeze blowing over the fishermen who are dropping their lines in the water weighted by sinkers, plunging after elusive prey.
I came here to walk tonight after tucking my grandmother into bed, after my aunt and I helped her slip into her new nightie, a birthday present. After the cake was all eaten and the feast that my family prepared was consumed. After I stroked her forehead and her cheek and told her to rest and that I loved her and happy birthday and she lay so still, unanswering, that I thought either she's asleep or she's just tolerating my touch; I'm a stranger to her, she doesn't know me anymore. I came here to walk after I stood to go and she said goodbye, her eyes still closed, and then "thank you for those soft caresses."
I came here to walk because this is where these things are done.