Ahead, Through the Trees

My father passed away at the age of ninety-four. Three days after he died, I went for a run at a state park near our home – where there’s a mile and an eighth long track surrounded by trees, with a pond, fields of wild grasses, and a majestic stand of hardwood trees inside the big oval. In its heyday, the track was used for training racehorses. The November air was chilly and moist from overnight rain; sky overcast with a light wind. Weather that reminds me of afternoons with Dad.

As I ran, I watched the thick, gray clouds traveling fast from west to east, and I listened to the rustling leaves clinging to their branches. A gaggle of geese awaited me part way round, one a few steps ahead of the others. The lead goose stopped grazing, stood perfectly still, and fixed its gaze on me. Turning my head, I noticed that all the geese, spread out over thirty-yards, watched me as I passed by, something that had never happened before, and a prickly sensation traveled up my spine.  

The soggy gray cinders, sprinkled with wet leaves, crunched under my shoes as I raced along, warmed up. Turning northward on the track, the chilling wind penetrated my sweat suit and I remembered how much my father loved to run, no matter the season. 

As I neared the end of my first lap, the clouds low on the horizon parted abruptly, revealing a startlingly brilliant sun -- the most intense orange I’d ever seen. The sunlight fired the leaves to bold shades of canary, goldenrod, pumpkin, and dark cherry. 

I raised both arms to the afternoon sky, and stretched tall to take in the stunning fullness. From inside the burnt orange sphere, my father’s spirit called to me. “I am here. Go ahead. I am here.” A gust of wind pressed me from behind. 

Ahead, through the trees, round the next bend, I saw an old man running, but when I emerged on the straightaway, there was no one in sight. There was no one in sight.