Here at the same white desk I've sat at for eight years, atop the hutch I had to have, only a few books always stay. Out of all the verse and narrative I've collected over the years, these four books remain the only books that have this certain privilege. It is that privilege of the image of my father.
It was my last night at home, in the morning we would drive down to Eugene together to move me into my dorm room. My first room 150 miles away from the familiar scent of home. He sat in the white wicker chair drinking coffee and listening to me recite my favorite verses from The Standard Book of British and American Verse. A book from his parents house. I continued to read and he left to brush his teeth for bed. I stared into the ink, strumming my fingers through the page markers that had collected. He stood at my doorway and said, "These will be the best years of your life, and your room is always here for you to come home".
Every parking spot close to my dorm was full, so he parked down the road and used my bike to ride each box to my room. Once the room was packed with apple boxes of my stuff, he told me he had to go so that I could settle into my new home on my own, I asked him to stay and help me make my bed, but he had to go, the day was dwindling and there was much to do at the farm. We hugged goodbye and I bit the tears back as he smiled and turned and I watched him walk down the hall. once his scent dispersed, I closed the door behind me. I could hear my heart beating in my ears as I forced myself to let go.
I unpacked my books first, and I placed three books on my desk. Reminiscent of childhood was the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, the first 'big girl' book I ever read. I remember because I used to read out loud when I was younger as if I was the teacher reading to her students. I was reading Finn and as Dad was going down the stairs he called up to me, "You sound super! Keep up the reading". I read the book because he said he loved the adventure when he was younger, the dream of building a raft and floating away down the river.
Of course Thoreau's Walden is always there because papa always reiterates the importance of self-reliance.
The fourth is Black Beauty, an antique book that he gave to me for my 21st birthday. When I was little that book was the catalyst that made me horse crazy, it was the reason papa would take me on bike rides to feed apples to the horses off Wisteria road. We always talked about having a farm of our own in Oregon, and at 15 we looked seriously for the first time in my life. After two weeks of weekend drives in the country, we found the safest place in America, a place that heaven would rather be.
tonight it just hit me, how it has been years since I lived at home, and it hasn't gotten easier. I see him almost every week for dinner and animals at the farm, but I'm always going to miss my father, like a little girl in pig-tails waving from the window to his car in the morning as he leaves for work. Yet, as I pull from the driveway in Jefferson and wave goodbye from my car, I know he sees the little girl in lopsided pigtails. Even though I'm not home, I can always smell home and I can always find my father in one of my books.
He's always there, within the words.
Dear Linz,
Discipline is your best friend, along with patience, perseverance and persistence.
Picked up your Lakeridge yearbook today. In order to move forward-- by the way-- we have to clean up and put the past in its right place.
Love, Dad
(9/27/07, letter from Dad first week of Freshman year)
All the words that I utter,
And all the words that I write,
Must spread out their wings untiring,
And never rest in their flight,
Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,
And sing to you in the night,
Beyond where the waters are moving,
Storm-darken'd or starry bright.
-- W.B. Yeats, Where My Books Go
