by Griz Baer
thinking Mom?” She said, ‘I am so proud of the man you have become. I see strength and pureness in you that I saw in your father; there is a confidence that you have gained that makes me know that you will always be alright on your own, and a common sense that you have and a pride in everything that you. I have always been proud to say you are my son, and you have turned out to be a wonderful human being. He wept at that, at the time, and he wept as he stood by the side of the road, staring at the decaying carcass of the dead deer.
He, in turn, had told his mother how proud he was to say he was her son. It took unbelievable amounts of strength and confidence to raise him on her own, when many had enough problems and headaches raising a child with TWO parents, yet she never complained or made fun of their situation, unless they both were in on the joke. He said he knew in his heart that his father looked down from Heaven, and was proud of her, and she cried quietly as he spoke the words. He lay his head beside hers on the pillow, and whispered in her ear that he did not know how he would be able to live in this world without her, she was the most important thing in it, everything else was worthless, as he wept with an almost bellowing, sobs of great breath coming from his lungs. She had turned to him, as though she had not considered this, and said, “You have to keep going with your life, this is a small thing that should not stop you from setting new goals or finding your sweetheart or helping someone else in need. I will be gone soon, but the time that I have had you in my life, I would not redo any of it again; it was absolutely wonderful. There will come a day many years from now when the three of us will be in Heaven, but until then I will look down and be proud of you, I love you with all my heart. I want you to live a long and exciting rest of your life.”
And when he woke up the next morning she had passed, a small smile on her face; she looked as beautiful as the pictures he had seen in the photo albums. “Even in her death she looks beautiful,” he thought at the time. And that was when it truly hit him, the one beautiful thing that took care of him and made everything right in his life was gone, and he was left to fend for himself.
Philip Beauston walked into the small eye-blink town of Cross Village, which was seasonal, like most of the northern Michigan towns. Most of the downstate or out-of-town tourists that enjoyed the beautiful summer in northern Michigan had departed around Labor Day, and the slow and quiet life of the local residents could be seen at this gas station, which had only one vehicle gassing up, no one else there at the time.
As he approached the Cross Village General Store, he noticed the dirt-brown rusted truck at the gas pump, the driver in the process of pulling away onto the cracked and uneven road that headed to the east. On the back of the truck Phil noticed a huge Chevy logo, with the words, “The only thing faster than my ZIPPER” underneath it, the thing in question being the rusted Chevy truck with 3 of 4 almost-bald tires. He snorted with humor at the made-up slogan on the truck, and wondered what kind of person would use a line, let alone print it on their vehicle. Classy fella, Phil thought.
He threw away his empty and almost-empty water bottle into the trash can outside, and walked into the store. He went to the cooler in the back of the store, and grabbed two new bottles of water, and reluctantly a 4-pack of Reese’s peanut butter cups, as he felt he had deserved an impulse buy such as this. He paid for his items, and made small talk with the clerk. He did not recognize the clerk from his early school days or growing up in the area. Phil then walked to the trashcan by the closest pump, ate his candy, took a swig of his water, and headed back down the road he had just came, continuing toward his home.
About a half mile from the store, he heard a vehicle slow-down as it approached, and looked to his left to see it was an elderly couple from church, the Freedmonts. They rolled down the passenger window and Mr. Freedmont gave him an almost-yelling “Hello!”, and Phil could tell that it was more boisterous than usual, as he was overcompensating for an awkward situation, seeing Phil after the recent funeral.
“Sorry to lose your mother, Phil,” Mrs. Freedmont said after a bit, her eyes misting up as she looked at Phil. “She was a good soul, and we will miss her.”
“Thanks,” Phil said, though he found this response to be awkward lately; he had nothing to do with her good soul or generosity or the other thousand wonderful attributes that his mother possessed. But he always replied with “Thanks”, as he didn’t want to argue semantics or make people that cared question their generosity toward him.
“Give you a ride somewhere?” Mr. Freedmont said.
“No thanks, appreciate it, though,” Phil said. “Thought I would walk from my house to Cross Village and back today; Mom and I used to joke about that, wanted to do it for myself.”
“I think that’s nice,” Mrs. Freedmont said.
After some small talk they said their goodbyes, as there was not much more to say, and he watched the vehicle accelerate and disappear on the upcoming horizon.
Phil walked about a half mile more, past the familiar dead deer on the opposite side of the road in the ditch, when he noticed a rusty license plate in the ditch closest to him. As he wondered what state it was from (probably Michigan), curiosity got the best of him, and he stiff-legged down into the ditch and turned the license over. It was indeed a Michigan plate, and Phil turned it back over to its original state, and he walked back up onto the shoulder of the road, his hands grasped on his knees to help for support.
Phil wondered in what condition a vehicle had to be for the whole license plate support to disintegrate, to send the vehicle’s license plate to tumble end-over-end into the ditch. Maybe it belonged to the guy at the gas station filling up, with the Chevy truck? He might have thrown it out his driver’s window, perhaps feeling that the slogan on the back of his vehicle was all the registration he needed. If said fella ever got pulled over by the cops, he would look the officer in the eye and say, “YOU KNOW WHO I AM,” and hitch his thumb towards his tailgate. Phil laughed loud and hard on that one, and it felt good; that was the first good laugh that he had in a long time.
Phil walked slower toward his house than he had on his trip to Cross Village, as his legs were tiring from the distance, and he tried not to think about that as he pushed on. He again saw his mother’s “dream house”, the same cattle, and the same condom in the ditch, but when he saw them from the other side of the road they seemed different, as though he was not as connected to these things as he had first been. Phil thought about that, and couldn’t figure what had changed from then to now: was he disinterested in these items because they were not as new to him as before, or was it seeing them from the other side of the road, from a new perspective? He wasn’t disappointed, just curious, in a way.
Phil walked and walked until he could finally see the old Stutsmanville church coming into view, and there was something in that that made him feel good, a familiarity to it. They say ‘Familiarity breeds contempt,” he thought. Yet this is where I would rather stay, this area is my home. My memories reside with me from here, and though I have the option of moving 10 million other places in the world, nothing holds me to this area anymore, this is where I am happiest. This is where I hang my hat.
As Phil came upon his driveway, he thought of the life that he had built with his mother, their happy times, their sorrow. And he knew that those memories were the ones that would tide him over when he missed him Mom; a sharing of a life with someone you adore. Though he had not had many girlfriends in his life (perhaps because he could never find a woman that cared about him as he felt his mother had), he knew he would have to move on, and though he grieved as though his heart was being squeezed by a unseen hand, he knew that the adage “Time heals all wounds,” was also one that would be appropriate. Over time he would forget certain things, such as the way his mother would make his grill cheeses specifically for him, or how she would habitually hum hymns from church while folding the laundry. These were unique things that he loved about his mother, and forgetting those things
hurt his heart even worse than losing her: to forget the unique traits that made her different from anyone else in the whole wide world. He thought he would buy a notebook next time he was in town, stop by the Dollar Tree. In this notebook he would write something he loved about his mother, one unique trait per line. He wanted to have these memories before they left him.
Phil slowly trudged up the front steps of his house, and unlocked the door. He took off his sneakers, stretched his legs and walked into his bedroom, flopping down on his bed, facedown. And before the exhaustion of the day’s activities carried him into sleep, as the sun was already starting to set, he smiled to himself, happy to set a goal and achieve that goal, one that his mother would have loved to join him on. He had finally walked the distance that his mother could not, and there was nobility to that.
And he slept deeply, and dreamed of his mother’s smile.
