Undo

I wanted to undo, unstitch, unweave. I wanted to unchop a tree or unsay a word or unpass an hour. I wanted to un…nothing. There’s nothing to undo. There’s nothing I could have done to save Dad or Mom or myself or my brother. I’ve done nothing wrong, nothing to ask forgiveness for. And I hate it. Dad is simply gone. No do-over for us or for him. No way to resurrect that tree or breathe back that word or respool that hour. 

So, I lie here in my backyard. I’ve gone back for the first time for myself. When I squint against the sunlight, I’m centimeters away from a dandelion stalk, its fuzzy, fragile fronds are gone too. It sways in the breeze though it has nothing left to give. It is spent. Above me, my tulip poplar is new, and it shivers in its childish joy. When the wind whispers, its dried seed pods float lazily away. Suddenly, I am seeing the sun through a rainy windshield, all beaded and glittery and out of focus. 

Suddenly I am seeing clearly. I cannot undo, and I really shouldn’t anyway. Perhaps it is what I wish to redo that haunts me. I want to go for a walk with him again and stop at every tree and bush and flower the way I just did this morning as I walked by myself. I have taken his curiosity with me. I want to glance out the window and see him push the lawn mower across my yard again. I want to wrap my arms around him one last time, his ribs too pronounced, but my head fitting perfectly within the little hollow beneath his shoulder. More than anything, I want to hear his laugh. It rolled from him, from somewhere deep and full, a secret well. It used to. 

I cannot undo or redo, though, so I slowly stand up, brush off my jeans, run a hand through my long black hair, and walk away.