Page 58 - WTP XII #3

The Green Man (continued from preceding page) never have done in life—felt his throat, his veiny
Actively failing. Which I like to think isn’t failing. It’s movement, churning. You never know what bubbles to the surface.
Since I began writing this essay, there was another posthumous exhibit. Thirteen years after my father’s death. Shortly after what would have been his 105th birthday. The same artist friend persuaded another small gallery—a writing center with walls to hang art on—to display some of Dad’s work for a month. There was an opening reception and two weeks later an event where I read a story inspired by my (failed) attempt to secure a show at the small town college where my father took painting classes for years after he retired.
The sparse audience that Monday night—sprinkled between five rows of metal folding chairs—was com- prised of family, a few of writer friends and a handful of poets. Even in nasty weather, the poets had come out for the regular Monday night open mic. As I read, they snapped their fingers in appreciation, creating a soft cascade of shushing, clicking sounds.
Three of Dad’s older self-portraits variously glared and pensively considered the proceedings from the right hand wall, as rare rain pummeled the weath- ered asphalt outside the Sacramento Poetry Center, which is housed in one of several low-slung tumble- down buildings along the light-rail tracks. The Green Man hung on the back wall. We stared and jutted
our chins at one another as I read. Whether or not the unknown artist knew he was having a moment, I can’t say. I can say I sensed no animus in those beady black eyes. If anything, I imagined he was amused— at the setting, the poets snapping fingers, soft eyes and knowing nods. Reminiscent perhaps of my par- ents UC Berkeley days in the 40s, when Dad sold his silver and wood jewelry on Telegraph Avenue, before he shipped out for Italy. It seemed they liked Dad’s work, which hung on the walls all around us, and my story of an unknown artist and that I poked fun at this anonymous gatekeeper who wouldn’t consider allowing any of it to grace her walls.
I’m no poet. But I know they receive their fair share of rejection. Don’t we all.
Rest in peace Dad. Wherever you are.
Rice is a writer, freelance editor and book coach, managing editor
of the nonfiction and arts journal Under the Gum Tree, and a board member with the Sacramento area’s premier youth literacy nonprofit, 916 Ink. She has published the memoirs, Gray Is the New Black (Otis Books, 2019), and The Reluctant Artist (Shanti Arts, 2015), and edited an anthology, TWENTY TWENTY: 43 Stories From a Year Like No Other (Stories on Stage Sacramento, 2021).
wrists, for any pulse.
I was glad it was only me.
~
A few nights ago, my husband and I watched a Criminal Minds episode. An FBI agent is shot. She hovers be- tween life and death. Her father appears—he died when she was nine—seeming to float above her. Whether dream, hallucination, or visitation, is left to the viewer’s imagination. She’s finally able to apologize for her last words to him (a child’s angry outburst) and to say she loves him. He says he loves her too and will always love her. “I’ll be here waiting for you,” he says, “when it’s time.” She regains consciousness. Tears of gratitude and relief dampen her flushed cheeks.
If there is an afterlife, if my father finds his way there, will he have kept track of me? Enough to know when I die. Will he seek me out like the FBI agent’s father?
Near the end, Dad shared a dream with me. In his sleep, he woke up in a field and understood he was dead. “Green grass as far as I could see. Beautiful young ladies in filmy dresses flitting about.” He waved his hands in the air as if painting a picture.
“Interpretive dancers?” I asked.
“Indeed,” he’d said, with a rueful laugh. “Carrying baskets of flowers and fruit. Tributes, for me. A glass house shimmered on the next rise, modern, clean lines, very appealing against all the green. I under- stood it was mine. I’ve never lived alone, you know.” His expression was wistful.
If he’s found his way to that heavenly house, I rather doubt he’ll leave its comforts to shepherd me to the other side. I’ll have to search for him. When I spy the dancing girls, I’ll know I’m close. I’ll drift up the grassy hill and glimpse Serenity, his comely hand- maiden, and Dad, on a cloudy throne. Sensing a shift in the atmosphere, he’ll glare through the glass.
“What are you doing here?” he’ll ask. “Don’t tell me you came alone. Why don’t you wait for your sisters.”
~
It’s likely there’s no minding these matters from the grave. If my goal was to keep my father’s memory alive by creating a toehold for his artistic achieve- ments, I’ve failed, or at least, at seventy, I’m in the process of failing.
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