Rain, Rain go Away

Yesterday would have been my father’s 91^st birthday; the 15^th will be 30 years since his death at 61 and 9 days; this recent flooding has been reminding me of that year. We took turns visiting him in hospital, but the week leading up to his long expected death none of us could get to Park Ridge.

That Saturday, my husband and I spent over 2 hours travelling the 10 miles to Lutheran General Hospital. When we arrived his room door was closed, and we discovered he’d died in his sleep waiting for us. It was up to me to call the Rabbi, to wait for my mother and sisters to arrive, and to break the news to them. In the days before mobile phones, all I could do was wait for hours until they finally got there; we forget how out of immediate touch we were with each other then.

I’ve since written many an essay, poem, memorial, eulogy, obituary, and tombstone verbiage for many loved ones as well as acquaintances. I wrote nothing for my father though, I’ve tried over the years, but little has grown to fruition. I’ve often wondered if that day’s repeated waiting purged those words and thoughts from my well of words.

Ronda R. Scott-Marak
© 07 August 2017