back.
Dear God, give me my life.
I charge to the top of the hill, running fast, faster until I’m at the top, doubled over, gasping for air.
I do this every time—run so hard that at the end, as I crest the hill, I’ve run myself ragged, run myself to drain the pain and longing out.
When there are no more tears left, I jog down and the white horse that always looks at me, lifts his head and I look back at him.
My jog turns to a walk as I reach Poppy Lane. I walk even more slowly as I pass my favorite farmhouse, the one with the white picket fence. The fence is bordered with early blooming pink climbing roses that tumble in wild abandon across the white pickets. Dark blue, almost purple salvia has been planted between the rosebushes with low mounds of golden creeping Jenny for ground cover. I can bend forward and smell one of the elegant pink blossoms, wondering if this climber rose is an heirloom rose, since it is unabashedly fragrant. Once I would have asked my mother. Now I make a note to ask Diana.
• • •
I t’s Sunday morning brunch with Dad. And eight of his closest friends.
When I first arrived here, I didn’t understand why Dad would prefer to live at Napa Estates rather than moving to Scottsdale to be with me, but I’m beginning to understand.
Dad has friends here. They joke, they talk, they argue, they laugh.
Dad
laughs. And even with the splint on his wrist, he looks healthy.
Happy.
Mom would be happy for him, too. This is what she’d want. This is why they chose this place.
So if Dad is happy, and Mom would be happy for Dad, then I just need to be happy for him, too.
I need to let go of the idea of needing him . . . even though he is all I have left.
Conversation is easy until someone says something about “today’s kids” that sets the men off. Before I know it, everyone has something negative to say about the younger generation and I glance at Dad, wishing he’d defend my generation, or at the very least, defend me, but he doesn’t. He just lets them talk, and criticize.
“Kids nowadays, they don’t know,” Walter says grimly. “They have no idea what life is really like. They’re entitled. They think they deserve it all. They think they know it all. But truthfully, they know nothing—”
“Now that’s a little bit harsh,” George interrupts.
“But true,” Walter retorts. “They’ve never lived through war. Not a real war. Not like us.”
“But did the war make you a better person?” Jerry asks quietly. “I’m not sure it made me a better person.”
“Taught me to work hard,” Walter said. “Taught me the value of a buck.”
“That’s true.” Harold sighed. “It teaches a war ethic, an ethic kids today don’t have. Kids today don’t think they should have to work. They think it should all be handed to them,
just because
. My grandson, for example. He got an offer last year after graduating from college. He didn’t like the offer. He said it wasn’t good enough. That he deserved better. So what did he do? Turned it down and has spent the past year living at home, living off his parents. Easier to sponge off your folks then stand on your own two feet.”
Walter pounds his fist onto the table. “Exactly. But why do they deserve a red carpet? What makes them so special? What makes them deserve more than we did?”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Harold says, looking around the table. “Can you imagine any of us saying to our parents during the war, I shouldn’t have to go, I’m better than this? I shouldn’t have to work, so you go do it for me?”
Harold’s gaze locks with mine. “Alison, explain your generation to me. What makes a twenty-two-year-old feel entitled to stay home while his mother and father work forty-, fifty-hour weeks? How can a twenty-two-year-old man justify allowing his mother to do his laundry and clean his room while he lays around playing video games and reading Japanese comics?”
All eyes are now on me and I
Dear God, give me my life.
I charge to the top of the hill, running fast, faster until I’m at the top, doubled over, gasping for air.
I do this every time—run so hard that at the end, as I crest the hill, I’ve run myself ragged, run myself to drain the pain and longing out.
When there are no more tears left, I jog down and the white horse that always looks at me, lifts his head and I look back at him.
My jog turns to a walk as I reach Poppy Lane. I walk even more slowly as I pass my favorite farmhouse, the one with the white picket fence. The fence is bordered with early blooming pink climbing roses that tumble in wild abandon across the white pickets. Dark blue, almost purple salvia has been planted between the rosebushes with low mounds of golden creeping Jenny for ground cover. I can bend forward and smell one of the elegant pink blossoms, wondering if this climber rose is an heirloom rose, since it is unabashedly fragrant. Once I would have asked my mother. Now I make a note to ask Diana.
• • •
I t’s Sunday morning brunch with Dad. And eight of his closest friends.
When I first arrived here, I didn’t understand why Dad would prefer to live at Napa Estates rather than moving to Scottsdale to be with me, but I’m beginning to understand.
Dad has friends here. They joke, they talk, they argue, they laugh.
Dad
laughs. And even with the splint on his wrist, he looks healthy.
Happy.
Mom would be happy for him, too. This is what she’d want. This is why they chose this place.
So if Dad is happy, and Mom would be happy for Dad, then I just need to be happy for him, too.
I need to let go of the idea of needing him . . . even though he is all I have left.
Conversation is easy until someone says something about “today’s kids” that sets the men off. Before I know it, everyone has something negative to say about the younger generation and I glance at Dad, wishing he’d defend my generation, or at the very least, defend me, but he doesn’t. He just lets them talk, and criticize.
“Kids nowadays, they don’t know,” Walter says grimly. “They have no idea what life is really like. They’re entitled. They think they deserve it all. They think they know it all. But truthfully, they know nothing—”
“Now that’s a little bit harsh,” George interrupts.
“But true,” Walter retorts. “They’ve never lived through war. Not a real war. Not like us.”
“But did the war make you a better person?” Jerry asks quietly. “I’m not sure it made me a better person.”
“Taught me to work hard,” Walter said. “Taught me the value of a buck.”
“That’s true.” Harold sighed. “It teaches a war ethic, an ethic kids today don’t have. Kids today don’t think they should have to work. They think it should all be handed to them,
just because
. My grandson, for example. He got an offer last year after graduating from college. He didn’t like the offer. He said it wasn’t good enough. That he deserved better. So what did he do? Turned it down and has spent the past year living at home, living off his parents. Easier to sponge off your folks then stand on your own two feet.”
Walter pounds his fist onto the table. “Exactly. But why do they deserve a red carpet? What makes them so special? What makes them deserve more than we did?”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Harold says, looking around the table. “Can you imagine any of us saying to our parents during the war, I shouldn’t have to go, I’m better than this? I shouldn’t have to work, so you go do it for me?”
Harold’s gaze locks with mine. “Alison, explain your generation to me. What makes a twenty-two-year-old feel entitled to stay home while his mother and father work forty-, fifty-hour weeks? How can a twenty-two-year-old man justify allowing his mother to do his laundry and clean his room while he lays around playing video games and reading Japanese comics?”
All eyes are now on me and I
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