The mist lay thick and
cold over the fields. George had run ahead in his endless search for the
perfect, most interesting scent. I stood still. There was absolutely no sound
and I imagined being in a cloud on top of a distant mountain, surveying a world
covered with ice. What mark would I leave
on this world? What difference did I want to make? Did it matter what I wanted
or what I did? Was there a point to it all? My parents never went to church or
talked about God, and neither did most of my friends. All that remained of a
once vast Christian empire was an old, parish church bell that called the
faithful few every Sunday morning, amidst much cursing from my father who was
trying to sleep in.
I once asked my father if
there was a God. He scoffed and said that God was like the Easter Bunny, a
story for children. I had then thought to ask why so many grown-ups believed in
God and not the Easter Bunny. But he was in an odd mood that morning.
“Aaron, you're a fine
young man, and you know I'm proud of you, don't you?”
“Yes, Father, of course I
do.”
“Yes, you’re a man now,
off to university next year. I can
scarcely believe it. You will keep an
eye on your mother when I’m gone?”
I first thought he was speaking about his
next stint away at sea, starting tomorrow, but something in his eyes was
amiss. I felt uneasy. “Father, what do you
mean?”
He didn't answer at once,
his eyes focused dreamily on the setting sun over the waters. Then he said, “Ah, don't mind me, Son; I
think I'm just tired. Will you look at
that sunset? What a fine thing it is.”
He put his arm around me,
and drew me close. There we stood, two
men, my father and I, together, for what turned out to be the last time.
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