TheBanyanTree: Thanks Giving

[R J Fernalld]

'Maybe I just never really understood the gratitude concept' he thought. 'I
didn't ask to be born, especially not here. I mean, disease, corruption,
filth, murder, rape, and degradation. Maybe I'm crazy, but I can't see that
I ought to be grateful to some SOB god that lets so many suffer here,
including me.

'I know that there are millions worse off then I am. But doesn't that just
help to prove my point? Really. And another thing. Why is it that cranberry
sauce, turkey and Uncle Elmer drooling on his ratty tweed jacket at the
table is supposed to be some sacred rite of autumn? Over what river? Through
what woods? My grandmother is ensconced in a condo in Clearwater. She wouldn
t fly home to Chicago for a weekend, no way in hell. Yet here I am, sitting
on this damned crowded jet on THE most horrendous traveling day of the year.

'Mother was as manipulative as ever: Brian. Your father hasn't been at all
well. Would it hurt you to turn your patients over to your partner, turn off
your goddamned beeper and come home to see him?'

Good old Dad. Shit, he's been doing that dying act every year since I was
twenty. Was a good thing Bradley wanted Christmas off. I wonder if he's
actually taking that blonde he's banging home to meet his folks. I'd like to
be a fly on the wall when his mother.....'

A hard jolt put him face down on the aisle floor. He could feel the huge
machine tremble beneath him, as if afraid. Pushing through the chaos, he
quickly understood. The plane was diving and fast. It was then that time
seemed ethereal. He felt a whirring beside him and arms trying to hold him
securely against the pull forward. He lurched and felt his face pressed
against the hands of a clock.

'It's six thirty?. We're supposed to be landing at eight. What the hell?'

Then it finally dawned on him: 'I don't want to die! OK, life sucks. But I
want to live what I'm supposed to have left of it.'

Suddenly he felt heavier. He knew his feet weren't moving, but he was. The
crowd pushed him and pulled him. The panic grew. Then the arms returned to
stabilize him. He tired to see the person but could only turn his head far
enough to see the cufflinks on his shirt. Somehow he found them oddly
fascinating. 

'Get a grip, Bri. You're bouncing around in a jet headed for oblivion and
all you can think about is this guy's taste in jewelry?'

As abruptly as it began, the chaos ceased. The plane righted itself. People
were upset, but now weeping instead of screaming. There was blood everywhere
 The flight crew was assisting everyone back to seats. Someone wrapped his
head with a bandage. His eyes cleared up and he sprang to action.

"I'm a doctor. We need to triage."

Three died of knife wounds from the attacker. The rest were hurt but okay.
The hijacker had been subdued by the sky marshals. Thankfully the plane
landed without further incident. The remaining passengers, wrapped, bandaged
assisted by the doctor and flight crew disembarked. He gave his statement
and left.

In the lobby crowd he saw his sister.

'She never changes. She's still the dippy kid sister who never strayed ten
miles from where she was born.'

He hugged her warmly. She was glad of it but confused. Brian never was one
for affectionate displays in public or private.

The drive to the farm was silent. She concentrated upon the snow-covered
highway and he drifted off the sleep as they neared the turn off.

His mother met him at the door with the news.

"Father? Is he really bad? Why the hell didn't someone tell me?"

The antique bed had been put in the front bedroom for the old man. Dying,
indeed, his frail skin appeared translucent as he lay bathed the
snow-shadowed moonlight. He smiled as the son entered.

'My God. The cancer has made him look ancient. He's going to go tonight.'

They spoke quietly together of things mundane and dear...the farm, his
mother's ailments, the taxes, football games the son played. The old man
whispered his last words to his boy, brushed the young face with withered
hands and was no more.

"Thanks God, goddamn you! He's the only good person I know and he's dead.
Happy damned Thanksgiving.'

He hurried from the house and found himself in the barn sitting on a hay
bale. The old familiar smells and sounds were more comforting than he would
have admitted. 

'What is she saying?' 

His mother bent to him and as she kissed his tear stained face she slipped a
box into his hands. "I promised him last week that I would give this to you.
He said you'd understand." He watched her shuffle through the snow to the
house. 

Opening the box, his heart refused a beat.

"Oh my God."

There, nestled softly upon greying jewelry store cotton were cufflinks, now
familiar. In the silence of the snowfall they spoke to him softly of
miracles and a father's love.

"Thank you, Father."

New tears of thanksgiving fell upon his face in harmony with the evening
snow.


copyright R J Fernalld 2003