Remembering Dad

He dozed lightly, head resting against the textured plastic wall of the aircraft. He’d fallen asleep before takeoff, his large body secure in the snug embrace of lap belt and armrest. His dislike of flying had grown with age, in inverse proportion to his tolerance of crowds and confined spaces. Fitful sleep was his only escape, and he had learned to let the vibration of the engines lull him into an uneasy stupor.

Reverberation of thin metal in turbulent air jarred him awake, his head lolling sideways before the eventual onset of sentience. He’d been dreaming about dad again.

He rubbed the focus back into his eyes and gazed wearily through the square glass portal. Through a thin sheen of woodsmoke cirrus he could make out a familiar patchwork below, vast tracks of forest dotting a mosaic of pastoral and arable, all haphazard boundaries and awkward lines. It wasn’t entirely dissimilar to the landscape at home, but on a much grander scale. The vastness of the woodlands was no less impressive with repeat viewings, and the green carpeted foothills of the Carpathian mountains always filled him with awe.

It was almost a year to the day since dad had gone, a sudden and shocking end after a protracted illness. He’d been thinking of him a lot recently.

His ability to read the landscape was something he’d learned from years of study, both academic and professional. He’d eagerly pored over books written by men with white beards, telling of glaciation, tectonics and fluvial process. Each of these was a carpenter’s tool, shaving and chiselling the world over geological epochs. Man’s influence was particularly telling, stripping the land of much of it’s high forest to make way for the farmland required to sustain a growing population. Some considered humanity to be the most destructive of all the great viruses of the Holocene, but if that were true Central Europe remained a sanctuary. Here the green man made his last stand.

Dad hadn’t been himself for years. Without mum he was frail and nervous, a pale imitation of his former self. His last two years were marred by psychiatric problems that meant he wasn’t really dad anymore. In some ways that made the inevitable easier to endure.

Sunlight glinted off the surface of a small river that snaked sinuously through the land below. He noted the contrast between the river, meandering through the landscape according to the path of least resistance, and the nexus of roads that man had carved through whatever stood in their way. The roads were generally straight lines, designed with set-square and draughtsman’s pencil. Straight lines reduced cost, and it was easier to cut the trees down than to curve around them. He contemplated how the rivers themselves had been engineered to suit man’s needs, evidenced by the long straight sections adapted to drain the wheat fields. Nothing under the sun was truly untouched by man, not any more.

He’d been thinking about Dad more often than he’d like to admit. When he was awake he remembered the strong, silent, kind man of his youth, however dreams only ever showed him the fading shell of not-dad that he’d become. It was almost funny how his final act had come to define a lifetime.

As they flew over slate grey mountains a thick mattress of cloud formed an opaque barrier, and his study of the landscape was thwarted. He was frustrated. Staring out of the window occupied his mind and kept the realisation of how much he missed dad at bay. He already knew, of course, but he’d refused to let himself dwell on it. He’d never really grieved for either of them, not properly. He’d cried on the day that dad went, but a period of acceptance and closure had never come. It wasn’t a misguided attempt at machismo, he just didn’t know how to open himself to the process. Words were his only outlet. He’d probably end up working his feelings into one of those tortuous verses he’d started to write. Something tedious about landscape, no doubt.

A break in the cloud gave him something to focus on, a small round lake perched high amid the granite. They called these ‘tarns’ back home, derived from Old Norse. He was grateful for the distraction.

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