Minnesota

This is an ode to my dad, who loved our home in Minnesota. He passed on November 26, 2001.

In a valley carved by ancient wind and rain, a man walks alongside a creek. Dusk darkens the trunks of the cottonwoods, and the snow is hard under his boots. He looks up, ignoring the sharp wind that fails to break through the wool of his coat, and spots the first star of the evening. He doesn’t miss the glow of city lights.

On top of the bluff above the valley, the man whistles—one note long and one quick. Two dogs with mud-covered paws bound over to him. Their perked ears are their excitement, and their slobbered grins are their loyalty. He ruffles the fur behind their ears, and together they start their descent into the valley. He looks for spring morels under the oaks and thinks about sautéing them in butter and garlic.

In the field, the black soil gives life to the grasses, which are nearly as tall as the man. Big bluestem, Canada wild rye, and prairie brome brush against his fingers. They remember him, for he tilled the first seeds that sprouted their predecessors. Longevity, spread wide like the summer sky, tells the man that he will always be in that field even if his presence is only seen through the gifts he has left.

The valley—emblazoned with yellow and orange—proclaims the end of a season. Another year is closing, but the man accepts this. He lets the past stretch out behind him as he watches his children walk out ahead of him. He doesn’t worry about them. They can always find him in the swish of a trout’s tail and the smell of the first frost. He holds the hand of the woman next to him and watches the sun set the sky on fire. 

In this place and this time he is and will always be.