Comfort in the Cold

By Clara Blair

It had been a sad day, long coming, but welcome at last.
We had buried my husband’s father that bright November afternoon,
And now family and friends filled the house he had made so snug and safe.

I stood alone in the garden that night, between the house and the huge workshop
Filled with his woodworking tools, trying to imagine the world without him,
His wry laugh, his dry wit, his creativity, his curiosity, his respect, his love.

I called him “Dad” on my wedding day, and it felt right from the start.
Before I discovered I loved his son, I watched how Dad treated his wife.
Partnership was there, cooperation, room to disagree and love as well.

He was a plain-spoken man whose folksy charm belied his intellect.
College, he said, was a way to keep from having to work with his back.
But his hands, like his mind, were never idle. An engineer by training,
He was also a naturalist, an artisan, a spinner of tales, a writer of anecdotes.
In the end, he feared losing his mind more than losing his life. Small strokes
Quietly stole words from his lips as a weakened heart stole his breath.

The twinkle faded in his eyes, and the once-brisk walks shortened,
But the power to observe remained, and the caring, and the sharing.
Once I sat with him on a bench at the zoo -- reluctantly he rested,
Preferring to be with his grandson to see the creatures from far away.
Then he brightened, pointing to a nearby eaves where a swallow
Fed its young in a nest of clay. Somehow, that bird fed us, too.

Dad was not a churchgoing man, but Mom had a minister speak
At his graveside. The night before, the man had visited the family,
Learning what he could about this man whose wife asked his help
In giving her husband back to the earth according to custom.
We told him stories – wife, sons, daughters-in-law, grandchildren,
Sisters, brothers-in-law, nieces, nephews, all sharing memories.

Now I stood in the cold night air and saw a spot of color on a bare twig
In the sleeping garden. It was a cluster of redbud blossoms, flowers that
Come in the spring before the leaves unfurl. What are they doing here?
Silly tree, I thought, it’s November – go back to sleep. But soothing calm,
Deep peace came over me, as if Dad were saying it’s okay, it’s okay.
Later my husband told me no redbud tree had been in that garden for years.

© 2002, Clara Blair