-Title- The Old Man -Author- Anastasia D. Alderson -Feedback- Always accepted at amazingmuldeeni@aol.com -Archiving- *NO ARCHIVE* Gossamer and Ephemeral myself. Everywhere else, go ahead. -Started- December 25, 2001 -Finished- December 25, 2001 -Spoilers- Up to Existence. -Rating- PG-13 -Category- R, A, S -Keywords- Story, Angst, Character Death -Summary- His soul's been blessed / And he's laid to rest / And it's now I feel alone -Disclaimer- Anyone whom you recognize doesn't belong to me, they belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. No infringement intended. -Author's Note- Ana, this one's for you. Merry Christmas, and many more to come. --- Mom always told me that, as a baby, I would only stop crying for my father. Today, it is all I can do to stop myself from crying over his death. It's only for Mom and my little William that I keep my emotions inside. We're burying him at St. Stephen's; Mom's stoically standing with her back to the biting wind and snow, and I holding William to my chest with one hand and allowing the other one to cling to Joyce's. She moves to take William from me when he starts to fuss, but I find it impossible to part with the comforting weight of him in my arms. It will be too soon that he will be too big and too heavy for me to hold, and I want to hold onto this feeling for as long as possible. When I was little, just older than my William is now, my father would wake me up at 5:30 AM every morning to bundle me up into some ridiculously warm outfit, swing me up into his arms, and walk the mile out to the hill in the woods. I'd sit in his lap every sunny morning, watching the sun rise, asking with childlike wonder about the birds I saw, the insects that crawled around us on the ground, the occasional fox on the hunt for breakfast. Every other Sunday, after going to Mass, the three of us would wander into the woods, Mom carrying the basket that inevitably housed lunch, I carrying the blanket we were to sit on, and Dad carrying me. It seems appropriate that it's snowing today. Dad always loved the snow. He'd take me out to the hill we watched the sun rise from, and we'd spend hours rolling around in the snow, sledding down it, and trekking back to the house to bring Mom outside so we could make a snowman. Dad would always eventually catch her off guard and we'd all wind up red-faced and giggling. If it was snowing too hard to go out, he'd find a game on television and we'd sit, him with a beer and I with a bottle of root beer that looked like the bottle he'd drink from, yelling at the screen while Mom served us "game food." I snap back to attention as the priest gives one last blessing before he returns to the warmth of the small chapel on the cemetery grounds. My memory flashes back to the last burial I was at- Joyce and I had been forced to plan Walter Skinner's funeral. His wife had died years before, and Mom and Dad were in Italy when we received word. They'd made it back to the US for the wake and funeral- he's buried in Arlington. Twenty-one gun salute and a flag that now sits upon the mantle in my house. Dad, Walter, and I would spend our springs and summers practicing baseball and basketball, and our autumns playing football. I made Varsity in three different sports for four years, and received an astonishing number of full scholarships to name colleges- I chose the baseball scholarship to Oxford. Just like my father did. Dad died suddenly, at home. Mom awoke in the middle of the night to find he had passed. I think- no, I know- she was glad he had passed first. Dad was always very dependent on Mom, always needing her in some way. It was something I had worried about too- how would he be able to survive without her after being able to depend on her for twenty-eight years? Joyce is nudging me toward the limousine, and I look around to find that everyone has left except for Mom, Joyce, William, and myself. I nod, and follow Mom to the car, sliding in and kissing William's head gently, glad he's asleep. I'll have to remember to buy him something for being so good over the past few days- he knew something was wrong and that it wasn't the time to start acting up. Mom smiles weakly at me, her eyes falling to William gently sucking his thumb; he's usually very good with remembering not to, but I can't bring myself to take his comfort away at this moment. I pray some day he'll know the feeling of a child slumbering against his chest, innocent and carefree. I pray that some day, he'll call me "old man" and continuously make jokes about my age. I pray that some day, he will grieve for me as I grieve for my father. My Old Man. - Fin. Merry Christmas --- The Old Man John McDermott The tears have all been shed now We've said our last goodbye His soul's been blessed And he's laid to rest And it's now I feel alone He was more than just a father A teacher, my best friend He can still be heard in the tunes we share When we played them on our own I never will forget him For he made me here what I am Though he may be gone, memory lingers on And I miss him The old man As a boy he'd take me walking By mountain, field, and stream And he'd show me things not known by kings And secret between him and me Like the colors of all the pheasant As he rises in the dawn And out to field and make a wish Beside the holly tree I never will forget him For he made me here what I am Though he may be gone, memory lingers on And I miss him The old man I thought he'd live forever He seemed so begging strong But the minutes fly And the years roll by For a father and his son And suddenly when it happened There was so much left unsaid No second chance to tell him thanks For everything he's done I never will forget him For he made me here what I am Though he may be gone, memory lingers on And I miss him The old man End