The Day I Found Out

By the time I came to know how sick my father was, he was dying.  I was eight years old.  Judy was fifteen. It was 1961.

It was a single, specific day although I don't know the date.  I knew Dad had been spending a lot of time in bed and seemed to be sleeping a lot.  I just thought he'd get over it; if I thought anything about it at all.

There was a great disturbance in the house that day. A special bed was being delivered and our cousin, Marvin Daniel, was there; which was odd. I remember wondering why.

Cousin Marvin, as my sister and I always called him, was a huge man in my eyes.  He owned a farm just outside of town on the Peanut Road and grew tobacco, raised chickens and pigs.  He and Cousin Juanita had six (or possibly more, I admit to losing track) children that seem to be equally spaced in age.  Linda was the oldest and she was my sister’s age.  They remain close friends to this day.  Francis was a year older than me and eventually we would play high school football together.

The moment came when the special bed was set up and Dad had to be transferred from his bed to the new one.  Cousin Marvin lifted my father in his arms and held him like a broken child. I remember the look of sadness on Marvin’s face as he held my father who seemed completely limp and lifeless.  I don’t know how long he held Dad. I have no idea how long it took. I just watched Cousin Marvin holding my father. 

I remember nothing else about that day but I realize now that much of who I am and how I think are rooted in that day. The day I found out my father could die.