A Moment of Stillness

There is one moment of stillness I can recall in my life. I was seated on a couch in what was once my living room. A basketball game was on a color television that had been muted. I could hear the wind rustling through the trees in my yard, adding its sound to the secret noises of my empty house. The remote lay on the coffee table, my hands folded on my lap inches away from it. I regarded them, worn and rough, my right palm cool from having held the plastic telephone.

I wondered if they would feel the same way when I grew older and my skin became sunken and wrinkled. I could imagine my veins, then subtle under a middle-aged hide, purple and protruding like wire. Strange, I thought. That my hands could become those of an old man's. That I would become an old man with white hair on my knuckles. I imagined the frailty with which I would pick up the remote, my strength sapped by the years and disuse.

The last time I had seen him was ten years ago. Back then, he looked much as I do now, his hands worn and rough, while mine were soft and smooth as a child's. I was waving them around, making dramatic gestures to him, while his were clenched, his knuckles growing pale and his veins become clear against his skin. As I walked away, I felt the few coins in my pocket and thought that they would take me to freedom, independence, and a world of my own.

As I sat in my house, I could still recall the last time I saw him, his face grave, a mask for the anger, disappointment, and perhaps even fear he must have felt, just as I did. But he remained after the door shut quietly behind me, and I left. I realize now that I will never have what was inside that door again. And in what was once my living room, the same thought, that I would never again have that moment of stillness, never occured to me.

It was soon over, my stillness interrupted by the noise of my phone, its alarm signaling its need to be hung up. Startled, I quickly put the handset back in its place, my hand coming to rest on the cool plastic, reminding me of a door handle I closed a long time ago, a door I had walked away from, and a father's face, one I now would never see again.