Fall: The Beauty of Death

 

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.