The Owl Keychain

We went to the park. I clung to my father's arm in a fraying, dark gray cardigan that unraveled with strands sticking out here and there.

It was late October. The day was sunny yet chilly, and he trembled. I draped my cherished scarf around his neck, a vintage green one that had belonged to my mother before me.

I felt like he was in the same boat as I, which is to say tired. The dry leaves crackled beneath our feet, and the air smelled of ash.

"How are you, daddy?" I asked, turning to him. His hair was like cotton candy.

He didn't answer. His gaze melted into the landscape around us as we walked further through the park. The maple trees on our right shed their beauty on the ground, laying a golden carpet under our feet.

"Stunning," he breathed, his blue eyes misting. I wrapped my arm around him, "It's a nice day for a walk, isn't it?"

He nodded and took another deep breath. A little girl with brown pigtails smiled at us as she ran past us on a red bike. I smiled back.

Dad too grinned sheepishly. "Ehem…Let's go over there and sit down," he pointed ahead of us to a bench.

As we approached it, he didn't sit down. So, I did instead, stretching my legs and smoothing down my skirt while he looked around for something as if he was lost. Finally, he sat down next to me, his back straight, hands on his knees as if he were posing for a photograph.

A huge pond with swimming ducks loomed ahead of us, and to our right, a squirrel on her hind legs was sniffing about for food.

We sat in silence enjoying the view for a few moments until my father broke it with an off-handed question.

"Have you heard from your mother?"

He was asking about his wife of 62 years with whom he had been separated for about a year now.

"She called me last night from Los Angeles," I said.

I didn't tell him she was staying with her male nurse who happened to be a twenty-something-year-old Argentinan with a degree in medicine from a Mexican university.

"How is she?"

"She's good, I think she's putting on her war paint," I tried to joke.

"She never calls me anymore," he said, sadly.

"I know, daddy." I placed my head onto his shoulder, and we sat like that for a few minutes.

The sun was weak and pale through the gray clouds, but it warmed our faces as we watched children laughing and chasing each other up and down the sidewalk.

In reality, I loved that my parents were living on opposite sides of the world. If we had all been in the same city, I would have to always make sure they were staying away from each other and dad didn't do anything stupid like throwing my mother's lovers down the stairs or worse.

Not only that, but I'd be unable to avoid my mother's passive-aggressive check-ins in which she would scold me for my poor life choices and terrible parenting abilities.

"You know she doesn't have much time left," dad said, taking my hand in his.

"I know, Dad," I said. He squeezed my hand in response.

I thought of our old house in Los Angeles when I was a kid, a small nook for the kitchen there, my mother's bright red lipstick, and how Dad had always been the one who kept quiet when mom would start her rants over dinner. Dad's opinion never mattered; Mom made everyone feel that she was right and dad was crazy.

"She's not going to die," I said. "Her chemotherapy treatment is going extremely well."

Dad didn't respond. He kept staring at the ducks who were now busy chasing each other around the pond.

"I'm happy she's doing well," he finally said, "and I hope you're taking care of yourself." He turned towards me and gave me a hug.

I'm fine," I assured him, embarrassed by how pathetic my own existence was. My freelance writing career came to a halt. My husband left me for that tart a year ago and didn't call me in the last four months. My son dropped out of college to find himself, but all he discovered was the use of illegal drugs. And my daughter, who always excelled in everything, now treated me like an ATM machine because she had no job and was in between boyfriends who she kept swapping like socks.

"Fine," I said again, not wanting to get into any of that with him.

"Good," he said, "I got you something."

He reached into his pocket and took out a small object. He handed it to me with both hands, as if he was presenting a precious gift on a special occasion. It was a keychain with a pink bird with golden wings and gemstones set in it.

"It's a barn owl." He said, pointing to the bird.

I examined the keychain from every angle; the stones glistened in the sunlight. "It's beautiful, daddy. Thank you."

"It's antique," he continued. "Your mother gave it to me when I first met her at a UCLA coffee shop where she served as a waitress. The keychain had a key on it, now lost of course, that opened the room she rented in the rear of an old couple's house at the time. She said that was the key to her heart, and she was so pretty when she said that."

His eyes beamed with memories I didn't know existed. I knew they met in college, but that was about as much as anyone told me.

With his index finger, he drew a heart with an arrow through it in the air. I smiled, "I'm happy you've met, daddy."

Finally, he went off on a tangent about owls and how they differ from other birds... I stopped listening, but he kept talking anyway. I sat there in silence, watching the pond, and thinking about all the keychains out there all the keys that could open people's hearts. There were so many I wanted to have.

He stopped talking and looked up at me, his eyes wide.

"What are you thinking about?"

"You." I said, "And mommy. The time when you were young."

"Yes," he said, "that was a long time ago."

We both glanced over to the ducks at a distance. Without saying a word, we had acknowledged that he and Mom were blissfully happy in their young years. Why can't be people happy forever?

I gave him a kiss on the cheek and got up. "I have to go, daddy," I said.

"Yes," he nodded. We stood up and he wrapped his arm around me as we walked towards the car.

"Thank you for coming." He whispered. "And thank your mother for me too."

I nodded. Before getting into my car, I turned around one more time to wave goodbye at him.

"I love you!" I said.

He smiled and with his hand, he formed a heart in the air again as if to say that he loves me too.

It was the last time I saw my father before he died. He passed away seven days later.

. . .

* image credits:

https://pixabay.com/photos/owl-key-ring-keychain-128527/

https://pixabay.com/photos/fall-golden-golden-autumn-2800182/