Trees spread over the rolling hills like a rugged blanket. Twelve years had passed since Carl had stepped foot on the forest side of the creek. Since that time, his father had been able to meet him at the foot bridge. Twelve hours had passed since he found his reason to return. A half a day prior, he got word about test results from the doctor.
Deep in the hills, on the barren side of Hawk’s Nest, there was a cabin hand-hewn by Carl’s grandfather. Inside that cabin lay his ailing father. Carl loved his father in way only few understand. They didn’t say it with words. You spoke with gestures. He helped Carl man-up to the task of maturing into adulthood. All these things equated to love in Carl’s eyes.
Carl found the hillside somewhat unfamiliar as he angled deeper into the woods, but soon spotted the landmarks he grew up with: a wood stove in the middle of nowhere and a broken bridge that had been all but absorbed into the brush. Occasionally, the trees would part naturally enough for him to make out a thin trickle of smoke that he knew was from his father’s cabin.
Along the way, he picked up the things he knew his dad loved. He found flat rocks for adding to the fence in the back, though he could only muster two for the overgrown trek. He gathered the ferns that grow in long patches underground to make his father an early Christmas wreath. Then, just before the steep grade, he pulled up some sassafras tree roots to make tea. His Dad was uncomplicated as far as Carl knew. He enjoyed the simple things in life and smiled constantly around everyone before sinking into seclusion.
His heart skipped when the interlocking logs of the cabin came into view. Like a rush of quail, his emotions took flight. Carl, without time for a thought to enter his mind, began to sob. There was no time to regroup, he simply walked on. His creaking up the steps to the porch was enough of a knock for his dad to yell from inside. “Come in boy.”
Lifting the rustic latch, Carl pushed the door open. The very first image he saw was the last one he remembered, a smile that beamed past the long, white- bearded face that framed it. Carl lifted both arms, full of the visible gifts he knew his dad would easily recognize. His father, lying in his bed covered to his stomach, raised his arms as high and wide as he had strength. As Carl came closer, his dad’s eyes filled with a flashflood of tears. Carl began sobbing too.
When he got near the bed, his dad began batting away the gifts until Carl stood with empty hands. “Embrace your father boy.” His dad’s voice trembled through tears. “I’m so sorry dad, I have let you down.” Carl sobbed the words. Then came the embrace. His father’s grip strengthened to days of old. The two held each other and cried.
“I love you boy, I love you, I love you son.”
“I love you dad… so much. I missed you every day.”
In the next few hours, the two would recall countless stories. Carl’s father found the strength to get out from the bed and start to make the sassafras root tea. Carl started working on a makeshift wreath. Everything was the same, and everything was different. The words had been spoken and love now laced every memory. That night, Carl and his father soaked up every waking minute, and they pushed the hours as long as they could. They made a few preparations for breakfast. At his father’s wish, they laid blankets on the floor by the picture window. It reminded Carl of the first time his father took him to sit on the lookout rock to show him the blazing stars in crisp air.
The side that faced the open rock was a great observatory for the Milky Way. They used the pillow from the bed and wrapped up some of the coats by the door for the other pillow. Pointing up and smiling “You know what the big dipper and little dipper are for Son?”
“What’s that Dad? I don’t think you have told me the story.” Carl was delighted to hear a new one.
“The little one is ours; we bring what we can and fill it with good things as much as we are able. The big dipper is the one God uses. No matter how much we bring, he always brings more back to us.” The smile still spread across his rosy-cheeked face. “You, Carl, are in the big dipper. I could never thank God enough for the gift of my dear son. Thank you, dear Lord.”
Carl put his head on his dad’s shoulder the first time in his adult life.
“Son, I have spent far too many lonesome nights counting sheep. Let’s count our blessings tonight before we sleep.” One by one, they recalled a good thing, a surprise, a gift, a simple event life had afforded them. They fell asleep from the sweetness of blessings remembered. In the morning only one would wake.
Though he never remembered a conversation about illness or tests, Carl’s father knew by some deeply woven, parental instinct, that his son was dying. He also knew that preparing a proper burial place for his son would take the last few beats he felt he could steal from his weary heart.
Now, when people go to the lookout to see the big dipper and little dipper, they also see shining rocks from the memorial to Carl and his father. The shape is odd only because it lifts well above the ground. Carl’s Uncle would bury the father just as he lay, across his son’s grave. Within 36 hours of Carl’s final test result, he lay on the banks with his dad, once again counting blessings. This time though, they had to look down to see the constellations.