My father has been unwell lately and we are awaiting the results of tests carried out. We are all keeping our fingers crossed tightly that it is not as dire as it looks. I have called him several times and during a recent conversation, he mentioned that my eldest brother, Greg, had taken him to look at the sea. ‘It’s comforting’, Dad said, a simple comment that touched me. Later on, as always, he wanted to know all about our life over here and I said that Mike and I had just spent a day in Austin at the film festival. Immediately he asked, ‘Is that cowboy country?’ ‘No I replied,’ with a smile, for he has always had a great interest in American history, especially the cowboys and Indians period. I have often sent him books on this subject.
My father’s other favourite subject is the renovation of our house in Corpus Christi, which I pray he and Mum will still be able to visit one day. I described a recent trip there, and in particular all the birds that flock to the area during migration. At Oso Bay near the house, I told him, I had seen two great blue herons each with a plump silver fish, about a foot long, in their beaks, and close by a fisherman wearing an old battered straw hat in the water, plying his rod.
Dad has always been keen on birds himself and when I was in India on holiday many years ago I brought him back a red lacquer box with all sorts of colourful birds on its sides. It has been there, near his bedside, whenever I’ve returned home.
Whilst I was observing the herons, I looked up at the grassy bank and saw that it was covered in pink evening primrose and Indian Blanket, set against a perfectly blue sky. ‘Mum will love to hear that,’ my father commented, and I told him that whole swathes of bluebonnets, scarlet Indian Paintbrush, golden daisies and other wildflowers now line the verges of the interstate running south of San Antonio all the way to Corpus Christi.
Towards the end of our conversation, I asked Dad if he had started reading the latest book I had sent him, a novel about an aging soldier from the American Civil war who agrees to transport a young captive of the Kiowa back to her own people. ‘No, not yet,’ my father replied, ‘But I’ve had a look through it.’ I remembered Mum saying he hadn’t felt up to reading lately and I cannot begin to imagine what a bewildering time it must be for her, too, her own life held in suspension as we await the test results.
Mike told me that when his own father had been very ill, he remembered his mother holding his father’s hand and reminding him of the evenings they would sit on the upstairs balcony of their farmhouse to watch the cattle grazing nearby.
‘It was so sweet,’ Mike said.
‘Sweet, and simple, and it cost nothing,’ I replied.