he was never there. He never called. As you know, holidays were the only time we saw him. We just gave up. You never said anything either, Cisco. We all just sucked up the hurt. It’s not that we begrudged Dad a life of his own. He was there every step of the way after Mom died, just the way you were, Cisco. He took what we consider a wrong turn on the road. Who knows what he thinks. Come on, this is getting us nowhere. Let’s just go out and have a nice, productive day,” Sam said, reaching for Freddie’s leash.
There wasn’t a happy face in the group as they trooped out to the Rover. Except maybe Freddie, who loved to ride shotgun. She yipped her pleasure, dancing around Sam’s feet until they finally arrived at the car.
Jonathan Cisco stared at the phone for a long time. The headache was still pounding away at the base of his skull. He looked around the new modern kitchen, hating it. He missed the old wooden table with the claw feet and the chairs with the red-checkered cushions. Cisco’s rocking chair that she’d kept in the corner by the pantry was gone, too. In the past, she’d sit in it, rocking contentedly while she waited for a pie to bake or a stew to finish simmering.
She’d never really liked the apartment, though, preferring to live back in her cottage in the mountains.
He tried to clear his throat. The last time he felt this bad was the day of Margie’s funeral. A part of his life had died that day. Another part of his life died yesterday when the Trips tossed what they called the promise list at his feet.
Head pounding, he made his way through the apartment to his mother’s bedroom. Inside, with the door closed, he went straight to the old-fashioned dresser filled with photographs. He picked up a picture of Margie smiling into the camera. He remembered the day it was taken. They’d picnicked at the lake, played Frisbee, eaten too much, canoed, and rolled around on the spiky grass. When the sun set, and the temperature dropped, they’d built a fire and toasted weenies and marshmallows. Margie had looked up at him, and said, “Even when they grow up and leave us, we’ll still worry about them. We’ll be forever parents.”
Margie would have been a forever parent. He’d dropped the ball. His eyes burned unbearably as his fingers traced the outline of his wife’s face. God, how he’d loved her. Even now, just looking at her picture, he could feel a stabbing pain in his chest.
Jon sat down on the edge of the bed, aware suddenly of his mother’s scent. The Trips always made a point of saying she smelled wonderful, just the way a grandmother was supposed to smell. Margie had had a special scent, too. There were times when he had literally felt drunk just being in her presence.
Margie would not approve of what was going on in his life. Margie with the laughing eyes. Margie who only saw good, never bad. Like his mother, she’d been the wind beneath his wings. Everything she did and said during those wonderful, far-too-short years, was an indication of her love for him. And the Trips, of course.
She always packed him a lunch even though he could afford to buy it on the outside in those early days of their marriage. He never knew until later that the reason she discouraged him from buying his lunch was so she could put notes in from the girls and always one from herself, too. Sometimes they would be silly little notes, sometimes serious, always loving. He’d never wanted to give that up. More often than not if there was a client in town, Margie would pack a picnic basket.
She ironed his shirts, too, saying no Chinese laundry was going to take care of her husband. She saw to every side of him, the physical, the mental, and the spiritual. Margie was all things. God, how he’d loved her. How he missed her.
No, Margie would not approve of Alexandra. She would say she was shallow, all facade and no substance. Margie would have stayed in the cottage with Cisco, seeing to her wants and needs
There wasn’t a happy face in the group as they trooped out to the Rover. Except maybe Freddie, who loved to ride shotgun. She yipped her pleasure, dancing around Sam’s feet until they finally arrived at the car.
Jonathan Cisco stared at the phone for a long time. The headache was still pounding away at the base of his skull. He looked around the new modern kitchen, hating it. He missed the old wooden table with the claw feet and the chairs with the red-checkered cushions. Cisco’s rocking chair that she’d kept in the corner by the pantry was gone, too. In the past, she’d sit in it, rocking contentedly while she waited for a pie to bake or a stew to finish simmering.
She’d never really liked the apartment, though, preferring to live back in her cottage in the mountains.
He tried to clear his throat. The last time he felt this bad was the day of Margie’s funeral. A part of his life had died that day. Another part of his life died yesterday when the Trips tossed what they called the promise list at his feet.
Head pounding, he made his way through the apartment to his mother’s bedroom. Inside, with the door closed, he went straight to the old-fashioned dresser filled with photographs. He picked up a picture of Margie smiling into the camera. He remembered the day it was taken. They’d picnicked at the lake, played Frisbee, eaten too much, canoed, and rolled around on the spiky grass. When the sun set, and the temperature dropped, they’d built a fire and toasted weenies and marshmallows. Margie had looked up at him, and said, “Even when they grow up and leave us, we’ll still worry about them. We’ll be forever parents.”
Margie would have been a forever parent. He’d dropped the ball. His eyes burned unbearably as his fingers traced the outline of his wife’s face. God, how he’d loved her. Even now, just looking at her picture, he could feel a stabbing pain in his chest.
Jon sat down on the edge of the bed, aware suddenly of his mother’s scent. The Trips always made a point of saying she smelled wonderful, just the way a grandmother was supposed to smell. Margie had had a special scent, too. There were times when he had literally felt drunk just being in her presence.
Margie would not approve of what was going on in his life. Margie with the laughing eyes. Margie who only saw good, never bad. Like his mother, she’d been the wind beneath his wings. Everything she did and said during those wonderful, far-too-short years, was an indication of her love for him. And the Trips, of course.
She always packed him a lunch even though he could afford to buy it on the outside in those early days of their marriage. He never knew until later that the reason she discouraged him from buying his lunch was so she could put notes in from the girls and always one from herself, too. Sometimes they would be silly little notes, sometimes serious, always loving. He’d never wanted to give that up. More often than not if there was a client in town, Margie would pack a picnic basket.
She ironed his shirts, too, saying no Chinese laundry was going to take care of her husband. She saw to every side of him, the physical, the mental, and the spiritual. Margie was all things. God, how he’d loved her. How he missed her.
No, Margie would not approve of Alexandra. She would say she was shallow, all facade and no substance. Margie would have stayed in the cottage with Cisco, seeing to her wants and needs
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