by Jack Swenson
My father died in the dead of winter. Went to bed one night and didn't wake up.
I booked a flight, then hitched a ride to my hometown with my father's boss, walked up the sidewalk of the house late that afternoon. At five it was already dark.
My aunt greeted me at the door. Her face was contorted. “I'm so sorry for your loss,” she said.
It was bitter cold the day of the funeral. I didn't have the proper clothes. My father's brother lent me a coat and a pair of overshoes. We sat side by side in folding chairs in a tent at the grave site. My uncle's eyes leaked tears.
That night, left alone with my mother, whom I didn't like, I listened to her laud my father with whom in life she didn't get along. I told her to stop it. My little mother, with big eyes, in her mouse-brown bathrobe, huddled in a corner of the parlor couch.
I went upstairs to my father's den and closed the door. I found the knife in a fishing box in the closet. The box was made out of varnished wood. My father's father had made it.
I took out the knife and unfolded the blade. I had given it to my father for his birthday some years before. It was the biggest jackknife I had ever seen. From butt to tip it was nine inches long. It was bigger than necessary, larger than life. It was the perfect gift.
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Memories.
Beautiful elegaic writing, Jack. Restrained, exact.
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Always with the specific and telling details, Jack. I always love the "things" in your stories and here, the borrowed coat and overshoes, the mother in her bathrobe and man, that knife, so closely detailed. Great. *
Liked it a lot. Love the ending-the last 2 sentences.
Agree with what everyone else said. *
Great piece, Jack. Yes.
Echoed in my head with the song "Randall Knife" by Guy Clark.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KY5MOUO464Q
Like Kathy, I love those details, the concrete objects. And that knife! Great ending *
Really fine writing here, Jack, as usual. The piece treads along fact by fact, and then you stop at a place that seems, well, almost completely ambiguous. Is this reminiscing or is something bad about to happen?
So pretty Jack. I sense something ominous in the last paragraph...but it could just be me.
Great piece, Jack. Strong and tight as always, love the attention to detail, and your leaving what now up to us. *
Great story, Jack. Love the intimacy of life and death here.
Nice job. The perfect ift.
wonderful, jack. "My uncle's eyes leaked tears." especially stayed with me. men who are sad.
A fantastic story Jack. Such intricate details woven tightly throughout. *
I read this last night and thought I faved it, and I thought I left a comment. Apparently, I didn't do either. Maybe I just thought about it.
Anyway, you put every word to work. I enjoyed reading it yesterday, and I enjoyed it today.*
A lean, spare story about death that isn't particularly sad. What's sad is imagining the family life that came before.
Jesus!
In your top ten.
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Oooh, Jack, love this. Love the little wide eyed mom in her brown robe, all the details of the tent funeral, the coldness everywhere
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I can feel the cold, the sadness, wrong clothes. sadness
The first two lines are so good, and it just gets better and better from there.
The things we carry do say so much. Lovely writing.
Oh, the last line carried so much. *
love this, says it all: My little mother, with big eyes, in her mouse-brown bathrobe huddled in a corner of the parlor couch. Great piece, lovely.
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Lovely details - a full world, as always, in a few, but exact and well-chosen words.*
Loved it. The details, simple images, everything-- so powerful. Fave.