Fall has always been my favorite time of the year. The crisp
fresh air. High School and College football season. Homecomings—especially HBCU
homecomings! Maybe I just love Fall because I was born during this season. Born
on Election Day of 1965, I value the ceremony of elections. I enjoy
how election season rides along with the change in weather patterns. I love to
witness the beginning of a communal lull. A lull fueled by the exhaustion of
summer. I witness families begin to hunker down inside more. Family gatherings begin to move
inside. Meals take on a heartier and more comforting character. Drives through
rural southern communities afford me the opportunity to enjoy ornate
decorations welcoming Fall. Homes, buildings and front yards along highways present
artistry of burnt orange, yellow and brown tones all associated with Mother
Earth’s Fall renderings. Chrysanthemums with variations of the same colors
adorn porches. All bear the beauty of Fall.
The changing of the leaves is perhaps the main attraction of
Fall. Annual trips to the mountains are planned well in advance, to get the best pictures of the
beauty of trees. Colors change the appearance of trees ranging from appearing to be on fire to resembling
a beautiful sunburst. Much money is invested in witnessing and memorializing
the beauty of Fall. Timelines on social media share this beauty with those who
may not be able to witness it firsthand.
It wasn’t until I was a bonified adult that I realized that
what we are witnessing in the Fall is the beauty of death. The color of the leaves
we photograph is directly related to the stage of death the leaf is in. The vibrant
green of the leaves from the summer begins to display remarkable combinations of
red, yellow and orange tones. All leaves’ final color destination is brown.
Brown leaves are dead.
The beauty of death has never been illustrated for me more profoundly than a year ago when, in the Fall, my father transitioned from life to death. I had watched a year
prior when he beat the odds. At that time, doctors told us to take him home and
make him comfortable. The thought was that he would most likely not live through
the remainder of the year. They sent him home with oxygen and gave us contact information
on palliative care. Being the strong tree that he was, he defied what the
doctors had said and leaned on the strength of the one he knew to be in control
of everything. I watched as he pushed himself and bounced back. His need for
oxygen through a tube was eliminated. I watched as he regained his strength and
was back to rambling in the yard and even driving again. His determination gave
me a one-year bonus with him. While I relished the long phone conversations and
visits, I always knew that each time I talked to him, and each time I saw him,
could be the last time.
A year later, we were back in the same place. This time, I didn’t get the reprieve we all got the year before. I watched my hero as the beautiful
stages of death coursed through my spiritual, physical and emotional being. I’ve
experienced more deaths than I care to recall, but I have never seen a person
so prepared for this transition. His confidence in the hereafter and his
resolve that he understood and completed his life’s assignment, made it easier
for me to accept. My resolve that I had done all I knew to make his life as physically,
spiritually, and emotionally comfortable, helped me to enjoy the
journey with him. I won’t lie and say it was easy. There were some tough times
towards the end, but the sheer beauty in knowing I had a GOOD daddy for 57 years
fueled me. I recalled memories of his sacrifices for me. I soaked up the moments
between the two of us, knowing that they were only between the two of us. On the
journey from his proverbial green color to dull brown, I experienced bright
orange, brilliant yellow, and fiery red moments with him during his transition.
As the final day came, one of his bursts was fiery red. We
spent the last day in our family home with him. A house full of children,
grandchildren, and great grandchildren sang with him as we waited for the
Hospice Center transportation unit. We sang song after song with him. Even as I
knew this would be the last time I would ever see him in my childhood home
again, I got strength when I heard him belt out that deep rich baritone I’d
come to know as a small child. It filled the room and my heart to hear it one
last time. All I could utter at the time was, “Sing Daddy!” Just like the fall
leaves give us bursts of beautiful colors on their way to brown, my daddy gave
me bursts of beautiful colors on his way.
Although the leaves from last fall died. The newness of this past spring delivered cover for the naked branches last winter wrought. This Fall we
get to enjoy that transitional beauty once again. Unfortunately for me, I won’t
be able to experience the physical presence of my daddy again. Mother earth
gives us repetitive seasons through the nature cycle. The heavenly father gives
us one season with the ones we love and the ones who love us. I am grateful for all my seasons with my daddy. I know he was the daddy I needed for every season, and I’m confident I
was the son he needed. That’s beautiful.
