Growing up, I loved watching the Twilight Zone; especially the marathons they would shown on Thanksgiving Day.  Last year during a writing class, we were tasked with writing a short piece of fiction, pulling from our life events. Being a speculative fiction buff, I naturally could not go with straight-up literary fiction. The piece below was the result of that exercise.

 

The Visit

by D.S. Flores

It had just rained the night before and the dew tipped grass stood green and tall. Thank you may we have some more.  Oak leaves the color of copper sunsets blanketed the ground in small patches. The morning sun hung low casting an orange hue across the Park and its pebble covered pathways. The air was crisp and sweet carrying the scent of freshly lit fireplaces and the sound of chirping sparrows. I sat back on the little stone carved bench and sipped my cup of coffee. Being careful not to singe myself with the fresh brewed Java. Wisps of steam rose from the black coffee and the cup kept my hand warm in the cool autumn morning. I found myself staring into the ether of the steam and my mind wandering. I thought about my childhood, my father, and the Park where I sat.

♦

I had not seen my father since I was a boy. He was a tall man who favored blue jeans, white t-shirts, and wore his dark hair slicked back with a few dabs of men’s hair shine. My fondest memory being that of our visits to my grandpa and grandma’s house for breakfast. I called my grandpa, Tata, and my grandma, Up-Nana, on the account that she was very tall from my perspective as a child and the complete opposite of my other grandmother; she was small and confined to a wheel chair due to a stroke.

When we arrived at my grandparents the aroma of the weekend filled the air: scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and fresh toast. My father and I would eat, stay for a while, and catch up; well, mostly my father would catch up. As a boy of six, I was more interested in running around the yard and playing with Up-Nana’s short haired mutt, Buster. All the while being careful to avoid the old splintered house, rose bushes, and feral cats.

“C’mon boy, let’s go.” My dad would holler, raising his hand and calling me back to him.

By the time we left it was usually lunch time. We’d head to Lou’s Deli (one of those classic type of joints that was part deli and part liquor store) located in the old part of town and order up a couple of subs: lettuce, tomato, ham, cheese, and drowning in oil and vinegar. Those were good days, cool breezes and plenty of sunshine. I remember riding in my dad’s old, beat up grey Ford with its dull red flecked vinyl roof. The car held the scent of his lime aftershave, the little pine tree air freshener that dangled from the rear view mirror, and the fresh lit Marlboro cigarette pressed at the edge of his lips. We’d go to Pep Boys to pick up some thing or another for his old beater. The automotive castle had polished floors and the aroma of fresh tire rubber seemed to be baked into the walls.  Probably why, to this day, I still love that place and that familiar tire smell. Those were good times, but then my father left. I never had a chance to say goodbye.

♦

I had just finished reading my paper, when off in the distance I saw a man staring at me. He smiled and lifted his hand, calling me back to him. He looked familiar, but who? Then, all at once it dawned on me: his clothes (the blue jeans and white t-shirt), his posture, the gesture — it was my father. But it couldn’t be!

“Dad?” I called.

This place had always been his place, but I never though in a million years that I would see him again.  It wasn’t possible. But there he was, just a short distance away. Waving at me no less. My grip went weak and I felt my cup of coffee slip from my hand. My leg shot with the pang of heat and pain. Damn it!

“Dad! How — what are you doing here?”

He said nothing. He only smiled, turned around and walked up the path and over the hill. I followed.

“Dad stop, please!” I shouted, but there was no answer.  What the hell is going on? I quickened my pace and my footfalls crunched on the narrow gravel path.  I squinted my eyes in protest to the morning sun. The glare was sharp and blinding. When I came over the hill, he was gone. The only other things there with me were the chirping birds and rows of headstones.

“Dad?” I heard this come out in a feeble whimper. It was like I was that six year old child again. The spectral chill of the morning breeze ran a hand across the small of my back. Gooseflesh crept up to my neck and onto my arms.

“Hey, you alright there, son?” a weathered voice asked from behind.

I felt the blood rush from my head and my stomach sank. I spun around. Behind me stood an old man with a bushy white mustache and the eyebrows to match. He wore a tattered hunter green khaki outfit and held onto a rake. On his chest was patch that read: Crest Memorial Park, where your loved ones come to rest.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” The old man said.

“No, no it’s okay. I just thought I saw someone I knew.” I tried to play this off as casual, but I’m sure I sounded (if not, looked like) a lunatic — going on about people who were not there.

But the old man just smiled and nodded, “Yeah. It happens,” he said and then continued, “You never know who you may run into. You’re not the first one though.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, this place is old. A lot of history here ya know.” He scrunched his nose and winked and then went about raking up the fallen oak leaves into neat little piles. “I’m sure you’ll find whoever it was you were looking for. In the end we all do,” he called back.

“Right. . .” I said. It was all I could muster.  My mind floundered in a fog of confusion and I stood motionless. The cold air washed over me as I stared at the countless headstones scattered throughout the empty memorial park.

♦

I’m not sure what happened the day I went to visit my father’s grave. Not sure if the man I saw wave was real or not. I like to think that he was and that I got to see my father one last time. If even only for a moment, just to say goodbye.

 

 

Copyright © 2015 D.S. Flores, All Rights Reserved.