Where the Birds Fly Through

by Tim Brandy

Overview

Where the Birds Fly Through is a book about death and life. It is a love story between a father and son. Lawson is devastated by the death of his son. Through the seasons and years that follow this tragedy, he learns to reconcile this great absence and his sadness and regret with the warm, joyful experiences he remembers with his son. In this healing, Lawson learns to enter then embrace life once again.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781504950237
Publisher:	AuthorHouse
Publication date:	09/30/2015
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	146
File size:	682 KB

Read an Excerpt

Where the Birds Fly Through

---

By Tim Brandy

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2015 Timothy Brandy
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5049-5022-0

---

CHAPTER 1

Grief

Seasons passed in shadows across the yard: noted, but unnoticed. He sighed, looking up from the dishes in the sink to the dimming light. A weak breeze brushed the pumpkins and stirred the leaves of the alders. His gaze traveled over the garden and stopped at the fence. The table stood neglected; shadowed now, by the sun's faltering aspect, the potted plants draped in fir needles and obscured beneath fallen leaves. Everything rested under time's veil.

A shudder rose from deep within and broke on his shoulders. He resisted the urge to let go of pain. It was unfaithful. He had promised at graveside to always remember his son: every nuance, dimple and smile, the tone of laugh, the punctuated growth of adolescence. Relinquishing a single memory might send his son away, finally and forever.

In a college math class once, his teacher had led students in an investigation of the difference between one and two. One was an obvious answer, but the teacher had pressed for more. After a slow start, the class was buzzing with all of the possibilities; all of the numbers that lie between one and two. There was one and a half, one and a quarter and the square root of 2. At the conclusion, they realized with awe that there is an infinite amount of numbers not only between one and two, but between any two consecutive numbers. Counting took on a whole different meaning for him. It slowed down. So it had become with time ever since the day Jeremy died. Sixty seconds to a minute held little meaning when there was eternity between seconds, surrounding minutes and within hours. When he walked along the street, now, mothers pushing strollers, dogs romping, fathers throwing and catching, a giggling infant all happened in slow motion. Still frames. Time took on a whole different meaning.

Through these months since the funeral, he had begun to live within routines: robotic, mechanical, underwater yet regular so that he strenuously managed simple tasks. He kept the house cleaned, fed himself, with regular augmentation from Miriam, and went to work. After a brief leave, his skill in teaching literature allowed him to continue, though the edge and enthusiasm he had brought to class waned.

Life was a hush where he found corners and benches to use as if they were a darkened room, and he sat.

Talking is like eating. We engage in it daily without awareness. It satisfies our social nourishment; but in fasting, one looses perspective. After five days on a fast, hunger begins to fade. It was this way with conversation for Lawson. At first, he felt exposed by interactions with his friends and colleagues. He felt a pressure to behave in a way they thought was normal. He was raw, too raw. He sought silence and used it to wrap himself blanket-like, cocoon-like. He took comfort in the empty rooms of his home and became jumpy at sounds. Hours morphed into days before he would realize that he had not spoken to anyone.

Once, a UPS deliverer knocked on his door. Startled, he opened and pulled a greeting from some place, a personal relic of social manners. He heard his own voice, strange and papery. Afterwards, still startled by who he had become, he went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror: unshaven, sunken eyes. This was the face of a stranger. This was the face of a cast-a-way. He sighed, turned off the light and lay on the couch for a nap. Later that day, he forced himself to get up. He prepared as if for a foray into the world. He was still part of the social community and there were standards. He feared for his own mental health. He feared what others might see when they looked at him. He felt frighteningly near a berth in the psych ward at the regional hospital.

CHAPTER 2

Lawson

There is no true comfort for real depth of despair and complete abyss of pain. There is no remedy. Time and the particular ingredients of one's soul may bring a healing secession of pain. New growth emerges near the pruned branch, but the stub is always there. Find a decomposing log in the forest and the broken limbs tell the story long after the heartwood is gone.

A week passed, though it could have been a month or a day. Time was inconsequential now, the way space ceased to exist on a foggy day. Late afternoon found him preparing dinner and cleaning out the refrigerator. Fearing lingering foul smells, he scooped up the plastic bag of compost discards and headed toward the door. He paused in the threshold. Fall afternoon air poured around him. His body relaxed. The cool evening was coming. He no longer had to diminish himself from the heat of the day.

Stepping over the threshold, he entered the garden and the world of change. Transition was here, subtle but sure. Alert as he had not been in months, he noticed the breeze against his face. He sniffed purposefully. The sweet smell of autumn's decomposition charmed him out of sensory slumber.

What was today's date? Had summer lapsed completely? He strode across the garden and emptied the bucket of vegetables into the compost bin, then turned more recklessly than he had in two years. His mood evoked rare abandon. Gentle autumn left him suddenly as he stood face to face with the angular lines of the table and the litter mass on top. He stared like a rabbit in a coyote's gaze. There was no scanning of this scene. No input of information. Only confrontation: present and real. Finally, the breeze stirred him with a rustle and returned attention to his senses. He spun around deliberately and walked toward the house, tired now, with sloping shoulders, afraid to look back.

That night, he lay on his back staring through the bedroom window at the stars. With all the gravity that suspended past from future, growth from decay or life from death, the garden table pulled and he knew he could no longer resist.

CHAPTER 3

Jeremy

Jeremy had been a young boy with untold awkwardness and unbridled interest. He loved exploring their wooded lot and would be off for hours on imagined missions of daring and rescue. Lawson used to watch him from the deck overlooking the garden or from the kitchen window. In late fall, Jeremy would want to check the small, creek-side pools each day for ice, waiting for the time when he would be able to walk on them. He watched the holes in trees in spring, hoping to find a squirrel's nest. The basement had sets of plaster animal track molds he had created and collected.

Lawson and Jeremy had lived alone since the boy was four. There had been little time for grief or anger in the presence of this curious child. They formed an inseparable bond. When the teaching day ended, Lawson would head straight for day care and whisk Jeremy off to go on an adventure. Often this was as simple as crackers and cheese under a Douglas fir tree out their back door.

When Jeremy was eight, they built a tree fort beyond the garden. It had windows and a door. Years later, Jeremy moved a bed and desk into the room. He ran extension cords and could be found listening to music, writing or keeping up on social media with friends.

Sports had never been part of the formula. They had tried. Lawson signed him up for soccer, then for baseball. He had taken Jeremy to practice, often sitting in the bleachers while reading his students' assignments and grading. He even tried coaching once; but these endeavors were chores for both. Jeremy never enjoyed the practices or games. In T Ball, he would be watching a bumblebee or following ants while the parents called for his attention to retrieve a ball hit into center field. In soccer, Jeremy ran into people more often than he kicked a ball. Feet too big and legs over-stretched, he could not coordinate his mind and body to change directions or respond quickly. He never developed the competitiveness to care or the drive to perform. Finally, Lawson gave up on this enterprise of childhood. You couldn't say that Jeremy was relieved, for he had never complained, but Lawson could see the joy when he was on his own in the woods. It was a joy his son never found on the field.

To the extent that he lacked finesse on the field, Jeremy possessed it in his mind. The lack of drive and framework of position in games was more than made up for in the schema of math and science. He drew conclusions, anticipated outcomes and studied without provocation from the time he was five. He learned the names, common and scientific, of trees and flowers, birds and reptiles. In elementary school he not only constructed a pyramid, but studied the work of the Egyptians and life of Tutankhamen, even convincing Lawson to drive to San Francisco for an exhibit about the young king.

This is how the time went. Lawson was gaining tenure in his teaching position and Jeremy was growing in mind and body.

When Jeremy was in fifth grade, Lawson took him on a road trip to the redwoods of northern California. They hiked and played, watched elk, and explored beach coves. This began a tradition of yearly road trips that lead them to Canyonlands of Utah, the Petrified Forest of Arizona, Santa Catalina Island, and Death Valley. These were good times. They were times of sleeping in a tent and watching stars around a campfire. Lawson would let Jeremy drive on lonely desert roads when he was eleven. Sometimes Jeremy would bring one of his friends.

By the time Jeremy was in seventh grade he had developed a motley social group. They came together out of their mutual exclusion by the athlete and popular cliques. In time, they found common interests. First, it was in small things like igniting a leaf pile with a magnifying glass or looking for snakes under discarded pieces of wood. They studied together and worked on projects. They spent afternoons at the home of one or another of the boys. Sometimes they went to the public library and worked on homework. After a while, Lawson began to notice an edge to their conversations: a competitiveness he hadn't seen before. They criticized other students. They wanted to score higher on tests. They were not looking for acceptance or conformity, but superiority.

By now, they began spending long periods of time at the park or on the railroad tracks. Somewhere in those years, Lawson began to get hints of their pot use. He had an open, trusting relationship with Jeremy and asked about it. When Jeremy denied drug use, Lawson believed it. Naiveté and denial became strong companions in the scaffold of Lawson's ignorance. Jeremy continued to succeed in classes allowing Lawson to give credence to his son's innocence, though he had to deflect an ever-growing body of evidence.

It was during Jeremy's sophomore year, that Lawson had to confront the situation. Not one, but a series of incidents occurred. Jeremy's best friend called one night around midnight after Jeremy had passed out from drinking too much alcohol. Another night, in December, when there was snow on the ground Jeremy was at David's house. Late, Lawson heard noises downstairs. Investigating, he found Jeremy on the couch shivering and barefoot, unable to explain.

Desperation grew in Lawson. He tried talking with Jeremy, bargaining, pleading. Twice, at night when he was drunk and in tears, Jeremy agreed to accept help. Lawson would call for rehab counseling. Both times when the confused state of alcohol subsided in the morning, he rescinded and was incensed at the very idea. For Lawson, it was a time of isolation and aloneness. It was a time of fear bordering on panic: of questioning whether he should be stronger or more collaborative. Nothing worked. Lawson longed for Jeremy's mother. He longed for help. There is little support in society for a parent who struggles to hold onto a tenuous relationship with their teenage child while still trying to guide their choices.

CHAPTER 4

Miriam

Grief, in regards to death, is rarely about the deceased, but the cavernous void left by life's cessation. A whole world loses context. It was Miriam whom he saw first. It was Miriam who spent the day into evening and over night. She brought him warm tea, held his hand, rubbed his back, but neither asked for, nor offered, any words. A silent witness, she spent a week with him before she felt that she could withdraw and leave him alone. She was not certain that he could survive this tragedy. Others came to him. They were well intentioned. They brought food, kind words and advice. Many told their own stories of death and pain. Everyone seemed to know someone who had a loved one die. All the stories told to Lawson ended with good: good healing, good new friends, good personal transformation, good life redirection. Lawson endured these friends and their stories, but waded through their visits, his breath held like he was riding a bike through an insect swarm. They sat, eagerly looking at him to see if they might be the one that committed salvation upon him. He recognized the need in their eyes, but could not bring himself, even falsely, to fill their void.

Miriam considered herself tall. At 5'9" she was tall among the women of her age. She stood erect though not straight like a yoga instructor. Her brown hair had a natural wave and she wore it to her shoulders. There was grey, not a lot, but one could see it. She didn't believe in masking her age or looks artificially. She was herself, a strong, intelligent woman. Her friends considered her to be a good, trustworthy, dependable friend. She had a calm warmth to her voice that gave comfort in misery and insight in confusion. She bore herself serenely without effort or self-awareness. Little things didn't bother her. Bills and car repairs were part of life. Medical issues came up. It was all simply the cost of living.

Miriam taught Environmental Studies at the University. She had come to southern Oregon from a teaching stint in Iowa. Her specialty was elemental interdependence in fragile ecosystems and she had made a name for herself among conservationists who sought her expertise when they were preparing scientific support for legal arguments. Miriam was occasionally called out-of-town to testify in hearings and court cases.

Slowly, the swarm dispersed and Lawson was left with Miriam's constancy and his work. She was a true friend who loved and cared for him. She honored his needs. Lawson was aware that there were times during the last few years when she had wondered if the love of friendship might teeter into relationship. She was ready, though not needy. Her husband had died suddenly at the age of 53. That was eleven years ago. The loss was devastating. They had been very close. Lawson had also thought of an enduring relationship with Miriam. Now, in the face of Jeremy's death, she was beside him attending his needs out of a profound friendship.

Miriam and Lawson had met at a function of the University Professors Association. Their friendship tied each to continuing work in the association. They began to share information about their lives: Lawson about his son Jeremy and Miriam about her husband and decision to move from Iowa, as well as, funny stories of neighbors in her condominium. They started having coffee during breaks and before the meetings.

Miriam invited Lawson on a Saturday hike in spring. That was when she met Jeremy. He was a fine boy and she liked him immediately. He was curious and articulate. Hikes, dinners and movies became a regular part of their routine. They were close, but the relationship could never become an equilateral triangle. Jeremy and Lawson had a bond set in time and experience that was stronger than any she had ever seen. Equally they enjoyed, even loved Miriam, but she was always outside of their world. She knew it, accepted it, but it still left small pangs in her heart that would come like frozen drops of rain on a winter night, piercing and transient.

This is why their relationship remained an elegant friendship. On campus, they greeted each other or sat and ate with a comfortable, frank intimacy that captured the attention of other faculty members and students. It was enviable. It was not romantic.

(Continues...)

---

Excerpted from Where the Birds Fly Through by Tim Brandy. Copyright © 2015 Timothy Brandy. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

---