Delta Sunset

I'm not sure quite what brought me back home after years in the hustle and bustle of the big city. I would almost say that I felt a calling, something compelling me back to Camptown and the delta upon which I was raised. Nevertheless, I was there.

The old town square hadn't changed much in my decade away. Smith's Grocery still advertised the same price for Bunny bread and half gallons of milk. Jim's Barber Shop still had that same broken sign out front. In a way I was happy that the status quo had been maintained. In another I felt tragically bad for this city that time had forgotten.

I pulled my car into the local diner; it was almost lunchtime anyway and the drive had sapped my constitution. How quaint, there was a parking spot available right out front - not something the city has too many of! I exited my car, went through my routine of double-pressing the door locks, and then realized in a moment of nostalgia that it wasn't necessary here. Hell, I was the worst kid ever to live in this burg!

The ringing of a bell above the door signaled my entrance to the half-dozen folks inside - all of whom cast suspicious glances at me. I knew they'd not recognize me, when I'd left I was quite the rebel, hair past my shoulders and all that. Now I entered the room as any accountant should look, short groomed hair, trim nails and a conservative business suit. As strangely as they took me, they found even more peculiarity at the briefcase I held at my side. From around me I was strikingly aware of their comments.

"Who died?" I thought I recognized Thom Landers, though I wasn't sure. He was in the corner playing checkers with another old man, beard and all.

"Gotta be an attorney or sumthin..." Gretta Walsh spoke from behind the counter. I instantly knew her; her raven hair always remained the same. She had worked in this diner for some twenty years I'd imagine. I used to have the biggest crush on her oldest daughter Ima Jean, and I recall that Gretta made the finest peach cobbler one would ever put in their mouth.

"Looks kinna suspicious." That old hat! Must have been Sheriff Jones, he always wore the same old fishing hat, complete with holes from forcibly removing the hooks that got caught in it.

The Sheriff never was much of a fisherman, but since it was the local custom he tried. Used to fall asleep on the riverbank down behind the Court House, pretending to fish, and whenever a loud noise would stir him he'd yank his line in. I'd guess that between the time I was 5 till I was fifteen or so, he'd caught that damned hat thousands of times.

The nostalgia returned again. It was almost prosaic to me that here I stood, in the midst of these folks, and they discussed me quite openly, as if I weren't there. In the city, people talk about you sure, but they have the decency to do it behind your back, in hushed whispers and the like.

I smiled at Gretta and hiked myself up on one of the red covered, chrome stools before the bar, removing my wallet as I did. "Ma'am, coffee please, black."

The strangest look crossed her face as I placed two one dollar bills on the table. She handed me the coffee and eyeballed the money, "S'at gonna be all for you?"

"Yes, ma'am." I sipped at the hot liquid, amused at the hush that fell over the room while everyone pretending to not be, listened for any words from me.

"Coffee's only a quarter son, what's the rest for?"

"Consider it a tip then." Another smile to the lady whose face had woke me many times. I used to sit out on their lawn, down on Fifth Street, after dark with my back against the old oak tree there and stare up at Ima Jean's window. Sometime during the night, I'd always fall asleep, only to wake to Gretta's concerned face. She was nice about my trespassing though; she never got mad at me, I think she understood that I was too shy to tell Ima how I felt.

At this moment I had a couple of options; I could tell them who I was and enquire about the people I'd left behind, or I could remain silent and really give them something to gossip about. I was about to make my decision, I really wanted to see Ima Jean again, but then a picture on the wall caught my attention.

The picture was of two men out on Anderson Lake, the evening sunshine coloring the water in gorgeous hues of gold and red as they finished a good day of fishing. I fought the tears filling my eyes as I recognized my dad as one, myself as the other.

It was late in August, just before I left to find my own way. Dad and I had been out on the lake all day long in that little canoe, enjoying the cool fall air and catching a few fish as well. We'd talked of life and the things that men tend to talk about during those kinds of activities; he'd told me that his greatest wish was that I might escape Camptown. He wanted me to see the world, not in the Army like he had, but as a visitor, an explorer.

"Son, when you leave, don't ever look back." His tired blue eyes sparkled with the pain of his words. "I love you, boy, but there's more to life than this place, these people. Your mamma and me, we agreed, you got so much potential, but you're wasting it here."

"Daddy, I don't wanna' leave." I was only seventeen then and I didn't understand. I thought he was running me away because of my rebellious ways and it broke my heart. "Why would you want me to go away?"

"Listen, I've lived here my whole life..." He paused for a moment to swat at an imaginary mosquito, I know now he was fanning his eyes to hide his tears. "These damn people around here, they won't let you be anybody but who they think you are."

"Son, you need to be somewhere that allows you to be who you are." He never looked so old to me as he did then. The strain of life showed in the lines on his face, and the pain in his eyes, and for the first time I noticed that his shoulders slouched. He had always stood so firm and proud before, now he seemed only a husk, a memory of the man he'd been. "We got some money together, you know, from when I sold my tractor; and your momma's been selling some quilts. We want you to take it and get the hell out of this town, never come back."

"You want me gone." Nothing more registered to me, I was being kicked out by a man who'd never before shown me anything but love. Now, somehow, all that had changed and he was pushing me away.

In the end, I took that money and I left. I bought a motorcycle and rented an apartment, finally went to college. Through it all though, I never forgave him for running me off. I got a letter from momma about four years later, telling me that dad had passed away; she died three years later. I didn't go to either funeral, as I guess I was still too mad.

Somewhere in my mind, I meant to ask them where they had gotten the photograph, I'm not sure if I did or not. Without knowing it, somehow I made my way to the local cemetery and found my parents' graves. And there I finally wanted to talk after all this time.

Two stones sat side by side, separated only by a little granite cherub, wild flowers growing all around. "Beloved Mother and Father," they read. To the west, that orange sun was falling behind the mountains; I knew I hadn't much time left there. Behind me, I could hear a car pulling up to the gate; old Willy had come to lock up for the night.

"Mom...Dad. I made it, I did what you wanted." Normally, I have no trouble finding words and expressing emotion, at this moment though the words felt like blocks in my lungs, too large to come out. "I love you, and I know...I know..."

I fell to my knees, digging into the soft clay just below the topsoil. I remember how cold it felt, and how strange it was just then to feel something. As never before, I felt broken and disconnected, and the cold and moist feel of the earth jarred me powerfully. Tears must have fallen from my eyes, my soul was screaming, I must've cried.

"...that you guys loved...love me..."

"...I'm sorry...I miss you."