This was Elijah and I on January 1, 2014 hiking Abiqua Falls. So much has changed since then—Dad is gone, Elijah is soon turning 16, Chuck is moving his office to Portland, and I am a disillusioned writer with little interest in the publishing world and all the calisthenics writers are asked to do to earn attention. My world instead is about trying to raise an independent son, support my husband, and still find my place and voice in the wilderness. It is where I feel most at ease with the temporary nature of everything I see, smell, love and touch. It is where conflict—internal/external—is sweetly silenced by the hum of indifference.
Saturday, January 2, 2016
Thursday, December 31, 2015
|Dad, last Christmas|
At the time, we three—Chuck, Shameem and I—thought the doctor was talking months, possibly a year. Maybe even more. Dad was an escape artist when it came to the Grim Reaper. In his life, he had slipped from the clutches of Malaria, Typhoid, Yellow Fever, The Black Plague. He had been in two nearly fatal car accidents, had broken his neck, survived a brain infection, and had been living with end stage kidney disease for more than a decade without dialysis. If Dad's end was near, it would take its time. But my dad knew better. Off handedly he suggested he might be gone in two weeks. The doctor disagreed. Dad had much more time then that.
After lunch Dad asked if I had plans for New Year's Eve, and I said no, we were spending it at home nice and quiet. We would listen to Portland's All Classical's annual countdown of people's favorite music. It was a tradition, typically ending at midnight with Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, a piece of music I was taught to love at an early age when my parents would take me to the symphony, or as I would fall asleep to the sound of the radio playing in the living room.
When I told Dad we would stay home for New Years, I saw, felt, heard a sound of relief. Dad rarely imposed his desires, but clearly he was happy to know we would be together. And it was a beautiful night, ending with sparkling cider and Beethoven's Chorale and Elijah and I conducting and everything—every little thing... being just right.
Then, two weeks later on January 14, 2014, Dad fell on the Portland streetcar. Ten hours later, he died.
And I think of all that today for obvious reasons. Anniversaries are sometimes a burden.
But I think Dad would be proud of his children: Naseem, Amir and Shameem. We have survived our first year of being orphans, and we have all come together for this holiday. We are carrying on the traditions that Mom and Dad started—the Catholic and Muslim agnostics who put up a Christmas tree not because they believed in a Christian god, but because they loved us, and what better reason could there possibly be?
|Me and my Dad -- Mohammed Allah Rakha|
Naseem Rakha December 31, 2015