A Father Takes Care

I take care of my father's house when he is away—check in on it after storms, water the plants in the myriad picture windows, pull in the errant delivery or paper. Today, in the wake of yesterday's weather, I went early. All was well.

My mother's plants flourish in my father's house—orchids I'd given her years ago are still blooming, as is my nephew Daniel's lemon tree, sprung from a seed in a paper cup, as are the fringe-y things that I once thought only she knew how to grow. The glass figurines are spotless. The books are all in place. There are no cobwebs draping from the ceiling. The sink is polished, the pantry engineered and neat. My father takes immaculate care of the house my mother furnished. He lives there as she would have him live.

Today, checking on the basement following the rain, I encountered the boxes and boxes of gifts that my mother never got a chance to give. Four new, brightly wrapped umbrellas. Ceramic flower pots. Books for babies. Books for adults. In the basement, neatly arranged by my father's hands, are my mother's never-used wrapping paper, her long cords of colored string, her bows and frills. The gifts were her intentions. They still speak. So that she's still there, and still and still, my father takes such care.

I took this photograph of my parents years ago, on my brother's wedding day. It was the beginning of my becoming the unofficial photographer at every family event. But this, I think, is my favorite family photo. My mother in the most beautiful dress she ever owned, and my father, proud.