last conference with the pilot, and then the cables are released, and the burns burn, and the balloon lifts, and something in me swells. My father stands. He leans across the fence. My father is amazed. The breathing lungs of the once- dormant balloons. The peaceable chaos of stars andmoons, greens and yellows, weaves of primary hues, rip locks, parachute tops, insignia and brands, a panda. We never know, when a balloon begins taking its airy shape, what it will turn out to be, or how it will soar. Stripes and diagonal splits, an American flag, a blue dog, that panda, and the crowd is thick with joy, the crowd sings to the songs that the loudspeaker blares, the crowd is one single thing on the ground and the balloons are their singular things in the sky, all streaming breeze-ward in the same direction, over our heads, away from the sun, to a not-so-distant touchdown, and now even the official photographers have stopped taking photographs to watch. When one balloon nudges another during takeoff, it is not a nudge, it is a kiss, and we roar. I touch my father’s shoulder so that he can watch my lips. I touch his shoulder so that he will turn, so that I can see his face. I touch his shoulder and the balloons are in their floats—their fires hissing, the pilot hands waving, the music playing, the breeze behaving, and up they go, up higher and breeze-ward, like musical notes, like a harmony sung only in soprano. I feel the heat of a tear in my eye. I feel myself exhaling, and beautiful is the only word I have, beautiful, and my father has seen this, he is standing right here, he is at the fence looking up. Nothing tethered. Everything released. We stay until the very end. We stay until Elvis himself, in fabulous shades and a durable belt, wobbles up, stories tall, and cants and tilts then lifts then drifts into the sky, follows the waft, the glide, the effervesce. We leave only then, and it is almost nearly dark, and there are ruts and planks and wobbles and crowds between where we are and where we must be and only so much time if we are to take my father out for the meal we promised him.
The hour is dark. The moon is full. The moon is nearer than it’s been. In the back of his Volvo, my father watches the roads, the world now asleep, all the restaurants closed. He cannot hear for now, and so we do not speak. Here if you need us , the man said. Here if you need us. Such a simple thing. It is so late at the villa that they’ve locked every door but one. The cafeteria is dark, the halls are empty, the ladies who like to sing are sleeping. It is so late, and it is so bad with my father that a wheelchair is now needed. My husband parks and I dash inside. I find what I need in a closet of emergency provisions. I wheel my father down the many halls, unlock his door, push him in. The only food in his place is a tub of sugarless cookies. He clings to his last bottle of water, his empty yellow bag of pills. “That’ll do,” he says, when we’re in. “I’ll take it from here.” “Dad,” I say. “I’m sorry, Dad,” and give his burnt cheek a kiss. The next day, early, my father calls. The next day his hearing aid batteries are working. I answer the phone with an apology, an apology that I have prepared during the night of my not sleeping. “No,” he interrupts. “It was beautiful. It was really something to see.” “But, Dad,” I say. “Your legs, Dad. The heat. I shouldn’t have…. I thought maybe…. I don’t know what I was thinking.” “I don’t know how they do it,” he says. “Do you? I don’t know how the balloons don’t get in each other’s way, but I’m glad I went.” There’s silence, then. No questions and no answers and no good words to say. Love is not strategic. Love shouldn’t be. “Maybe you can send me pictures,” my father says then. “So I can show all my friends over here.” “Pictures?” I say. “Yes. A lot of pictures. Wait until they see.” * –– Beth Kephart is an award-winning teacher at the University of Pennsylvania, and co-founder of Juncture Workshops. She is the author of two dozen books and is currently working on a collection of essays titled Wife|Daughter|Self. bethkephartbooks.com “Here if You Need Me” first appeared on Catapult.com.
My husband goes off ahead with the heavy things. I stay behind with my father. For every step he takes, he must first find solid walker ground. For every step ahead, there is a step or two to the side. The entrance gate is now the far side of the moon, and the crowd rushes past, and my husband is far ahead, and the night comes on us fast. “Dad,” I keep shouting, so that maybe he can hear me. “It’s okay, Dad. You’ve got this,” because what other choice does he have, what other choice have I left him with? You’ve got this, you’ve got this, you have come this far, but he is exhausted, his legs are folding, he is pitching back—leaning away from his walker and now all 107 pounds of me must be his bulwark, his defense against a fall, and I am not big enough, I am not big enough for this thing I made out of the love I keep transmuting. The balloons are long gone, the effervesce. It is my panic, rising. “I need some help!” I begin to call. “Help! Help me !” Until my husband, far ahead, somehow now hears me. He circles back. Catches my eye. Sees the sharp anxiety. Calm, he talks to my father, then walks ahead, marking out the best, least bumpy path, showing my father how it gets done, showing me. We go sideways, backwards, forwards. We arrive, at last, at the fairway and the vendor booths, and it’s not that much further now, I think, you can do this, Dad, I think, but he stops. Just stops. Begins that awful pitching backwards thing, like a tree going lateral. There is a crowd behind us, pressure. I turn to apologize for the obstacle we have become. “No, ma’am,” one man says to me, a sturdy man, the closest one. “Don’t you be apologizing, ma’am. We’re here if you need us. We’ve got his back.” Here if you need us. The art of being present. My eyes grow hot with gratitude, while, up ahead, my husband finds Security, Security calls Medical, a lady at a booth lends us her hand. We uncollapse my father’s chair and he sits with his collapsing legs and we wait until the medical people in their golf-cart truck come, their flashing sirens on. It takes many of them to lift the one of him, and my husband runs ahead toward the car. “Hold on,” the girl in the makeshift medical transport says. “Hold on,” and she’s talking to me.
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