We got home Saturday just before eight. I was driving. Dave Feather was riding shotgun. Uncle Albert was in the back, just short of fully reclined, his head just high enough I could see his face in the rearview mirror, just high enough that if he turned it, he could see out the window. But he didn’t turn his head; he was staring at the ceiling. I stopped the car in front of the house. Dave turned around to look at Uncle Albert. “You alive, sir?” he said.
Uncle Albert groaned to indicate he was.
“Good enough, then,” Dave said. “We’re letting Ted off here, then I’ll take you to your place. I’ve got a mat in my kip. I’ll sleep on the floor, make sure you’re all right.
“Head home tomorrow, I guess?” he added. Home for Dave was Newberry.
We had just driven the 925 miles from Paradise here in one day.
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 |
| the descent |
When it began in front of Uncle Albert’s place here, I was sitting where Dave was Saturday, shotgun; Roz was sitting where I was, behind the wheel; and Uncle Albert was sitting up in the back, tapping his cane on her headrest, saying, “Tally-ho! my dear.” We were going to New York City, to Watertown, to Ottawa, to Sudbury, to Paradise. Uncle Albert had made all the arrangements, for the luxury SUV with seats that were like luxury recliners, for the four-star hotels, for Roz’s plane trip home from Sault Ste. Marie, and, later, for Dave Feather to help me drive the 925 miles.
Until that last arrangement was made - by telephone from Paradise - I was assuming I’d drive home alone. I was also at least half-assuming that Uncle Albert was going back to Paradise not only to stay but to die. Or, I imagined that he was. It made to me a sad sense that I couldn’t shake.
But to die in Paradise was never his intention.
His intention was to go back to Paradise via New York City, Watertown, Ottawa, and Sudbury. Then, he'd come back here, to what he now calls “home.”
Next: Why.
08.03.17
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* We begin not in medias res but at the end of things.
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