A pirate with no treasure? (Patreon)

Digging *

My mother and Simon went on long walks. Or they went digging. My mother walked every day. Even here. She filled the hours.

She had been so private back home, but here in the country she was always outside. Always walking. Always digging in the field, sweat stained t-shirt. Strong arms twisting, Simon standing small beside her.

"What are you doing?" I asked her.

"Digging," she said, like it was the goofiest question in the world.

It might have been.

She dug hole after hole, singing old country songs, and then filled them back in. She dug like there was gold down in them there holes. She dug like her life depended on it.

I sat out there this morning for a while. Just to be with them. Simon leaned his head on my shoulder.

"She can't remember where she buried the treasure," he said.

"I told you. There ain't no treasure!" my mother growled like a pirate. "You keep your yap shut!"

"She's a pirate without a treasure?" I said.

"She's a pirate without a treasure," Simon said.

When she found a rock that was too big, or a root, she just filled the hole in again and started digging somewhere else.

"There might have been treasure under that rock!"

"Listen, you." My mother leaned on the shovel, exhausted and smiling. "If you spend your life digging for treasure, you're gonna something something your whole life away. But if you dig just to dig? Well, that's something else."

"Something something?" I said. She waved her hand dismissively.

"Something something something. Insert life lesson. My arms are tired."

Simon rolled himself out on the ground to look up at the clouds. Me, I had places to be.

Mornings were one of the few times my father and I could be alone. Even when you are waiting to die, there are too many hours in a day. They need to be filled.

My father and I sat in his hospital bed and read the obituaries. There was less mud involved. He read me the obituaries and he laughed about them. The awful, embarrassing, boring obituaries. A Whole life in cliches.

And eventually my father would get sad.

"Sunday, I am counting on you to not let anyone say I died surrounded by nameless loved ones." He threw the newspaper on the bed. "Or that I lost my courageous battle with cancer."

"I'll tell them you won."

He laughed. I loved his laugh.

"Exactly! You tell them that. The cancer is dead. I did what needed to be done. I'm a hero."

And he did. He did what needed to be done. The cancer is dead. My father is a hero.