Who Dad?!

Back on Course

For the next several days, Susan and I stayed home. She was probably keeping an eye on me. I didn't mind.

But I wanted to play some golf. She said she would come walk with me. Going up to the club felt like a safe place to go. It was gated, but now with the residents taking turns handling the security. Of course, like everywhere else, the weather was unpredictable, but there was not much violence or crime.

In fact, things all over the world had calmed down. People were learning new ways of organizing and co-existing. People were still scared but increasingly hopeful as a spirit of cooperation grew. The more people figured out how to take care of things together, the better they felt.

Being in the clubhouse felt like being back in high school, but with a bar, and all the classes optional. It was good to chat — share some banter and some concerns —with familiar faces, but it was walking up and down the hilly course and swinging a club that felt best.

On one par 3, my tee shot missed the green to the left, but the flag was on the front right edge. My ball was nestled in gnarly grass. I decided to belly a wedge with a firm putting stroke. That extra concentration caused me to remember my father's last words to me, "See the hit. See it through."

Something inside slowed down and I felt the precise weight of the club, saw the leading edge of the wedge meet the equator of the golf ball, pass through the grass, then my eyes followed the path of the ball as it moved first uphill, then across the green, then down, curling its way into the hole.

For years, I had been telling myself to "see the hit" as a way of staying down and through a shot. I had never said nor heard, "see it through" before that message from my father. In that moment, I understood. "See it through" was everything: from imagining the shot, preparing for it, the swing, the strike, and then the watching of the ball's path in alignment with all that came before.

And, "see it through" applied to finishing whatever one started: education, tasks, projects, and relationships. I realized then that just because I no longer had Ivy nor my father, I wasn't done. I needed to see it through.

I remembered then what I had to do. I had to write about it. No one would believe anything if I said it actually had happened, but if I presented it as science fiction, it could serve as my contribution in this time of reimagining what was possible.

Maybe then, after Susan had read it, I could tell her what was really true, and she might even believe some of it.