Thinks Change

It’s a minute before 7 and still dark on the ground even though there’s a tint of sepia behind the treetops. I’ve had the heater on long enough that I could turn it off. The chill is out of the room. A blanket is around my shoulders. A candle is lit.

There are advantages to my sunroom office. It is warmer. I can get a fresh cup of coffee a lot easier. The bathroom is just down the hall. And the windows still look out.

It’s Monday morning. Friday the carpet was cleaned. Saturday, putting furniture back in its usual places, I liked the look of the flat dusted surfaces so much that I didn’t put back every nicknack. I took down the dads shrine. Sunday, my nephew Tony, who rents out at Dad’s place (still called that even though it’s ours) had a party.

Dad’s driveway was lined with cars and lights were shining brightly in the early evening dark. We brought Donny’s mom, Katie, and as I walked slowly up the path to the door behind her I could see Pam and Gloria in the window and others gathered around the table. Once inside, there were camps, as there usually are. One family was in the living room. Another in the kitchen and dining room. We were having spaghetti. Donny brought the meatballs.

I said, “It’s nice to be here for a happy occasion.”

Later, Angie brought Henry, and still later, we played on the stairs as the family kids have done. Dad would sit up a few steps from the bottom and bounce down with them.

When the house got too full of noise I told Donny I was ready to go. It didn’t take so long as usual, and we came home to our quiet house, where Donny unloaded the drum set that was moving from one family’s basement to ours. Henry came in shortly and banged, then bathed, and then screamed to be allowed to return to the drums rather than go to bed.

He went to bed. It quieted down again.

I had a sense, as I took down the Dads shrine that it was about more than nice looking wood and neatness. It went up after Donny’s dad died. Just a collection of pictures, and the ribbon from the funeral bouquet that said, “Dad.” After my dad died, I added his pictures and ribbon, petals from his flowers, a candle with his picture on that the funeral home had made, and a small blue statue of the Blessed Virgin I found out at his house. All of this sat on a chest of drawers under the wall of old family photos: grandparents and great-grandparents on both sides.

At Dad’s, Angie asked if it felt odd. I said, “No, it feels good.”

Donny said, “Things change.”