–Robert L. Nystrom, December 10, 1929 – April 9, 2020
I read once that the Greeks thought no man’s story could be told until his death. Maybe it was hero’s
story, I forget. I wasn’t witness at your last breath, Dad– no one was. No one can know if you would’ve spoken
any last words. No other voice was near you but TV, the news you’d been watching day and night, fixed on
the virus that sealed you off in that blank, closed room. The nurse was down the hall for another half hour–said
later, over the line, she figured it must have been about that long, and apologized, but there’d been so many
in her care, so many cut off from anyone who knew them. When a forwarded refund check from your local paper
arrived, I learned you’d called a week before to cancel your subscription; you knew you weren’t going home.
Pallbearers named, you’d taken care to tell me Under the circumstances a funeral can be delayed, then went
ahead and agreed to a lease, through oxygen mask and phone, with the rancher renting pasture below the farmhouse.
You explained details, for as long as you could talk– had me repeat what I’d need to know before taking over,
from a distance, the farm I wouldn’t have inherited, except my brother died before you. For a long time I’d thought
silence might’ve been how we expressed love, but that wasn’t right. Yet I couldn’t touch your hand or forehead,
couldn’t listen when, in the stark room I never saw, your lungs began pausing longer, letting you go as if slipping
from a chrysalis, breath ebbing as you grew light, last changes before release from what never got said, out to the wide
sky over fields your neighbors will plant this spring– fields you first walked when the land yielded nothing but
the dust swirling around you and your skinny brothers, boys whose mother no longer spoke. Three kids lined up
unflinching, unsmiling in baggy, government-issue overalls, so tightly squeezed inside yourselves, squeezed together
inside the photo from 1933, shadowy cell you’re the last brother to leave– the middle one, shock of bang fallen
over your forehead, dark-eyed gaze so like your mother’s, who’s not there. I try to meet the boy’s eyes, tilting
the picture in different ways, but I can’t, not even now.