U Magazine, Spring 1988

I I

I I

THE EDITOR'S DESK

Spring's hope

I cried the November night of the phone call. Your father has cancer, my mother said. It's serious. He may not make it through the spring. I don't remember the rest of the conversation. At Christmas, I saw him. He looked frailer than usual. More tired than usual, too. Still, he smiled. He asked for no favors, no sympathy. Just as I expected. Too proud and too stubborn to do it any other way than his own. We tried to talk, but conversation was difficult. It always was with him. Instead, we sat, silently, side-by-side, and remembered our dreams. I hugged him when I left. Reminded him to follow doctor's orders. Told him I'd be back. Thanks, he said, and be careful on your trip. Now, quiet hope. It's spring. D

John Sutherland