As the taxi starts to drive away, my father stands at the living room window looking out, watching me move off into the darkness, at 4:30 a. m. His grey hair is messy from sleeping. Moments ago, he got up to carry my bag for me and went into the cold open air.
He thanked me for a daughter's cooking and for having traveled so far to spend the holiday with him. I told him that I worried about he would feel lonely again in the empty house.
"I have my plans," he said, in the moments before I walked out the door.
When I arrived 10 days ago, I felt it was quiet and lifeless in the house. Then my brothers and I came and filled the rooms. But, now, they're gone, I am the last to leave.
As the taxi began to move, I watched the lights go off, but my father didn't leave. Even though he couldn't see me in the dark, he stood by the window watching, beside the tree. It was a fresh tree. He buys one every year for the new year.
The life is hard for my father: my mother died years ago, and now his children are far from home, our selfish choices taking us from one end of the country to the other. I watched him as he stands still like the tree. Are there tears in his eyes, as there are in mine?
I can't wave from the taxi, as I leave a parent to loneliness in the early morning darkness. I leave behind two trees: one with silver-grey hair, the other still freshly green. Both of them are tall and straight.
