And This...Beginning Life in "The After"

Two Hikes, One Death, and The Gift Received in the Midst of Them

I’d made the promise at the beginning of the summer. We were on an impromptu hike with her older brother, Leo, and his friends. For the first 30 minutes, the boys splashed in the river with our dog, Winnie, taking turns throwing the pup a water-logged tennis ball they’d found on the rocky shore. Poppy waded in beside them, asking for a turn to throw, her attempts only reaching half as far into the easy rapids as the boys’ throws had gone. She wasn’t discouraged. Winnie still returned them with fervor and glee, her shiny, lithe body bounding back from the deep into the shallows, her black lips pulled up into the closest thing to a smile that she could muster. The boys tired of the game far before Poppy and Winnie.

“What are we gonna do now?” the boys moaned.

Back at home, I’d pulled them away from their front porch chat. Most afternoons, they sit on our rocking chairs for what seems like hours, talking about soccer stars and NBA stats and YouTube streamers, whom Leo shouldn’t know but somehow does. We call them “The Old Men,” and they don’t laugh at the moniker. They take their conversations seriously.

“Let’s take Winnie for a hike,” I suggested to them from the sidewalk, cars keys and leash already in my hand. They deduced that it wasn’t a suggestion.

“Fine,” Leo mumbled, following along behind me, but his friends knew better than to complain. They fell into line like compliant little ducklings.

But after the river rinse, they were bored.

“We didn’t do the hike yet,” Poppy piped in. They rolled their eyes.

“Okay, let’s do the hike now,” I called over my shoulder. A cacophony of moans followed me onto the tree-lined trail. “Just a short one!” I shouted back. And then I bent down and whispered into Poppy’s ear. “One day this summer, Baby, you and I are gonna go on a real hike. We’ll bring Winnie and snacks and take our time. What do you say?”

Her brown eyes looked up at me in wonder. “Yeah,” she whispered back.

I made good on that promise the very day that I posted my last Substack.

August 16th.

Exactly two months ago.

That morning before our hike I got a call from my mom that she was taking my dad to the doctor. We knew beforehand the outcome of the appointment. My dad’s doctor would tell him that the chemo he was doing wasn’t working, that it was time to lay down the weapons of medicine and let what would happen, happen.

Knowing this was the news that my father would receive, I spent the entire hike with Poppy thinking about the appointment, wishing I could be 400 miles away in that doctor’s office, taking the news with my parents, providing a buffer for the blow. As we walked along the trails, my girl pointed out funny-shaped trees and climbed the worn-out stumps of their predecessors…and talked. She’s one quarter Portuguese, thanks to my father, and if there’s one thing the Portuguese know how to do, it’s talk. She gabbed the whole time, which thankfully covered up my worry-filled silence. But I was making good on a promise I’d made. That was what mattered.

One week from that day, I sat beside my dad while he ate his breakfast, and I listened to his voice for the last time. I told him about the car we were buying for our middle son. A mechanic by trade, he was all ears whenever mention of an automobile entered the conversation. The model? The year? The mileage? The price? He nodded in approval as I provided the answers. He asked how the kids were doing. I gave him a 30-second synopsis about each of them. He smiled and shook his head in amazement. “God, bless you guys,” he said between bites of avocado sandwich, his favorite breakfast, his last breakfast. “You all are awesome.”

By that evening, my dad was unconscious. Four days later he died.

Yesterday, I took Poppy on our first hike since my dad’s death. It was the quintessential autumn day, windy with the slightest hint of a chill. The trees were starting to dress up in their last colorful ensembles of the year. We meandered along the trails, following in the wake of Winnie’s off-leash enthusiasm, laughing at the salmon and gold leaves floating down around us like painted, palm-sized snowflakes. When we found a small clearing at the end of one path, we laid down in the grass and stared up at the cloud-speckled sky and let Winnie lick our faces. Then, we continued our explorations.

Winnie, during a stoic moment

A steep hill leading up to a lookout tempted us with a deer-trail that we scrambled up with our hands in the dirt and our knees propped against the ground to keep us from sliding down. We arrived at the top, red-faced, out of breath, and exultant. Below us spread a blanket of treetops, pulled up to the chin of Lancaster city, whose building peeped out from the hem in the distance.

In between our daring exploits, we chatted about the weather and Winnie and friends from school and what trails we would try the next time. There was no need to worry about doctor’s appointments or the news my dad was receiving, no preoccupation with questions like “how long?” and “what about after?” It was just those moments in the forest with my daughter.

These are the moments in “the after.”

I hate to think of Death as a teacher, like some sharp-nosed, pinch-lipped school marm with a too-tight bun wagging her finger, barking, “You better appreciate every moment because now you really know life doesn’t last forever!” Ugh. I have enough of those characters in my mind already; I don’t need Death to join the line-up. Instead, I like to think of it, instead, as a paunchy, near-sighted old man with a tweed suit and a benevolent smile that simply leaned over, removed my glasses and used his soft handkerchief to rub them clean. Placing them back upon my nose, he whispered, “There you go. That’s better, isn’t it?”

Losing my dad has unravelled me. Believe me, they’ll be more on that later. But the vision I’ve received since his passing is, dare I say, an irreplaceable gift. Yes, my eyes are still getting accustomed to it. But I can see that this, here in front of me, my daughter sitting in the cleft of a rock eating apple slices, her brown eyes scanning the treetops thirty feet below us, the wind dancing her loose hairs like an invisible puppeteer, this is the life I want to see, I want to be alive to.

And this: my husband’s arm sliding beneath my pillow in the middle of the night as his body curls behind mine.

And this: my son standing at the doorway to the kitchen giving me a baboon smile under a mop of Einstein-esque hair, waiting for my laugh.

And this: the delight in my mom’s voice every morning when I call her. “Well, good morning, Baby. How are you?”

And this: Nat King Cole serenading me as I stand behind the front counter of our bookshop and write down the story of my daughter and I taking a hike through the woods.

And this…

Last night as I laid beside Poppy in the fairy-light glow of bedtime, she reached over and took my hand. “We spent almost all of today together,” she said, her smile on the edge of bashful.

I paused to steady my voice, giving her hand a light squeeze. “I know,” I replied, “and I loved every minute of it.”

She closed her eyes and nodded. “Me, too.”

And this…