Twenty-five years

I used to think that anniversaries of life events were just another day on the calendar, a slight bump in the road that you notice but pass over easily. But the year 2020 grabbed my attention and still hasn’t let go.

Twenty-five years ago, in 1995, my father died suddenly of a heart attack. He was 52 years old, and the fact that I’m not far away from that age myself only makes it more surreal. I grew up on a farm on Oklahoma land that has been in my family since the late 1800s. The connection to that land runs deep; it courses through our veins as surely as the blood that pumps our hearts. My parents went to college and became teachers, but it wasn’t long before the land called them back. They quit their jobs and started tilling the soil according to the rhythm of those who came before them. In many ways, it was an idyllic upbringing, and I learned the value of hard work and the beautiful spirit of Mother Nature.

The year 2020 has been difficult in other ways and brings forth another 25-year anniversary. Not long after my father died, the Oklahoma City bombing took place. A total of 168 people died, including 19 babies who were in the daycare on the ground floor of the building. I was working as a reporter at a newspaper just outside Oklahoma City, and in a split second, the world changed. Fresh with grief from my father’s death, I began reporting on the bombing, telling the stories of those whose loved ones were viciously snatched away. In retrospect, I have no idea how I made it through. In many ways, it’s still a blur, but I vividly remember the anguish that poured forth from everyone affected.

A quarter of a century. Life indeed moves on, but our memories move with it. For 25 years, I have wanted to write a poem about the days surrounding my father’s death, but I never could make it happen until recently. I included this poem in my first poetry book that came out several months ago. I wanted to write about returning home after my father’s funeral and realizing that the cows needed hay, and the calves we had been bottle-feeding needed to eat. I remember a deep pause in the air in which we knew we had a choice: either sink into the darkness, or do what we needed to do so that life could continue. I’m so glad we chose the latter.

Waiting

Bitter cold grief

on that January night

all the cows were waiting

for my father to put out hay

but we had just watched

as his body was lowered

into the earth.

The orphaned calves

hungry for their bottles

their wailing pleas

slicing the frosted air.

It all hung there,

this desperate call for life,

until one of us got the bottle

the other warmed up the milk

we silently nudged open a bale of hay

while the calves drank deeply,

sure they would go on living.