Picking Up Father’s Life

We arrived at the large house where my father now rented a room. He had once lived in the main part of the house when the woman who owned the house was alive, and they both had a relationship of some kind. Now, his room was a tiny box, full of dust, pictures, tools, souvenirs, clothes, glasses that at some point contained a liquid and were left to simply dry out. A tiny space in which one could move from the bed, to the door. The dust was the most prevalent aspect of the place, it was everywhere, and thick.

Slowly we gathered everything into boxes that we carried to the car. The Los Angeles sun was beating down hard, making every move not only heavy, but sweaty hot. I kept asking myself, how could this have happened? How did a proud man find himself suddenly in a small box of a room, surrounded by seemingly all he had left in life, waiting for what?

Retirement is not for the weak, neither is life for the unprepared, at that moment I felt both.

I kept re-entering the small room, kept filling more and more cardboard boxes. Every item seemed of great importance to dad, every spec of dust seemed to have its proper place. I regretted not coming sooner to help with all this. The room was not all there was of his life, it turns out there was a small shed by the large house full to the brim with my dad’s tools. Hundreds of tools were visible as he opened the door of the small shed, and looking at his eyes, they all held great meaning to him. I wanted to throw-up at the sight. It was overwhelmingly sad to see all these things, unused, yet apparently so meaningful.

The small car was loaded with dad’s things, and I kept asking myself why he stayed here, that would be evident as we neared the house in Oakley.

Dad was quiet while we packed and loaded his things, except for the occasional ‘be careful with that, it means a lot to me’, he was silent, and so was I.

I could not imagine how dad could even sleep in that room, that box. The bed was strewn with things and covered in dust. I tried to control my need to vomit.

On the way back to Oakley we were both quiet. The long drive on Interstate 5 through the California valleys was both relaxing, and at times endless.

He then started talking about all the friends he had. They would all gather every day at a donut shop that served free coffee and talk. Sometimes they would help each other in fixing a car, they would always help each other with advice, even if it was of no help at all. He would miss them. They were all in the same apparent situation, retired, and alone. It was the first time I thought he might actually miss having friends around. He got over it quickly however.