the listener

Every so often, I speak to the listener. He does what he does best. Listens.

I speak of my dreams, my fears, my frustrations....and he listens patiently. Then gives his advice.

Sometimes I heed that advice, sometime not. Sometimes I laugh, and sometimes I cry. But always I remember.

Finally, finally I realize that I cannot change anyone else.I can only change myself, and by doing so other changes will hopefully follow.

This advice I intend to follow, and then watch the wheels of change move slowly forward. It looks to be a bumpy ride. Wishing and wanting have gotten me nowhere. But life has been on hold for long enough.

I know that I can make it. I have the listener.

My father and I had been estranged for years. This daddy's girl very much blamed him for the divorce that changed my life forever. Some years ago, out of the blue, the voice (my conscience?) spoke, and told me to reach out and send him a Christmas gift. I did so, and in return my father also reached out and invited me to visit him in Arizona. That visit was wonderful. But all visits must come to an end, and the day of my departure saw us both with long faces. Upon reaching the airport, my father excused himself to make a bathroom stop, and my then-husband followed. Soon it was time to start that long walk to the plane. To this day, I remember hugging my father goodbye. I remember, because I think it was the first hug we had ever exchanged. Halfway to the plane, again the voice spoke to me and told me to turn around. I did, only to see my father standing there with the most grief-stricken, yearning look upon his face. For a third and final time, the voice told me to turn back and return to my dad. I did not listen. Soon the ex and I were winging our way back home, and he turned to me and told me about the strange thing that had happened at the airport. He had followed my father earlier into the airport restroom, only to find him standing in front of a sink, crying. The ex said wasn't that odd? My heart sank, because I realized I had not listened. To this day, I wonder how my life would have changed had I listened, and returned to my dad. Would I have become a better person? Would my father have survived his demons and lived to share a life, finally, with me? Would life have been easier for us both? I will never know. He died a month later. I returned to that place of wondrous light and shadow to strew his ashes beneath a palo verde tree. Every time I look in the mirror, I see my father. I miss him.