Long Night's Journey into Mourning

"Mounted on a cherub he flew, borne along on the wings of the wind." Psalm 18: 11.

I awoke to discover I was in mourning long before tragedy ever struck.
I awoke in the middle of the night, in a cold sweat with something flying past me, hitting me in the head. As I opened my eyes, I saw through a blur, something grayish, maybe a wing flying past.
Something though was on my mind, had I forgot something?
I went back to sleep a bit dazed and confused.

The morning brought me to my compact European car with coffee in hand, a busy mind usually defiant, taking my back pack off, and placing it in the back seat. About this time, I usually go over my argument for class.
It had rained the night before, and I saw what I thought was a somewhat roundish puddle of perhaps oil or grease on the hood of my car through the stained rainbow glass of the windshield. I thought maybe the wind would blow it off once the car was in motion.
I pulled the choke, started the engine, stepped on the clutch, and went in reverse. The car began tumbling and rumbling--something hit the car--I remembered that grayish thing from the night before--I saw a partial wing fly up past the wind shield shaking the rosary around the rear view mirror. The car floated awhile, turning round and round, and finally settled on a street corner I knew, near the cathedral of ball parks.
I saw a church down the block I hadn't noticed before. I got out of the car, with fans running by dressed up with jerseys, hats, and paraphernalia. I had my army uniform on. I looked towards the ball park, and saw my dad waving me over to hurry up.
I was glad to see dad--when was the last time? I was there in front of him in a moment. He had tickets for opening day. The tickets read April 10, 1980.
As we approached the turnstile, I noticed a puddle of oil or grease on the cement floor just inside the gate.
The concord in the stadium had a long walk with statues here and there of players who had some nobility. Going toward a concession stand was a stained glass window on the side. A wooden frame stood on both sides, a bit rustic and gothic looking with it's attendance inviting for those hungry for something to eat.
My dad stopped to talk with his usual friends who were concession workers.
The aroma of hot dogs, sausage links, pipe tobacco, and cigars filled the park. My dad liked to talk awhile, but I was always anxious to get to the seats. We walked up the concord strolling past people hurrying about, and others already seated, eating drinking, and gazing about. Our box seats were near the first base side.
As we took our seats, I felt agitated--perhaps it was my collar out of position from the way I sat down, or perhaps it was just the usual annoyance one feels when in public, when you try to make a particular good appearance, avoiding the necessity of explaining some inappropriate way one sometimes encounters, when an odd man dresses wrongly for an important occasion, when you see a person talking to himself, and you try to avoid them. I wanted to feel right, and be noticed by others as an upper middle class person with a bright future. I was nervous in anticipation in talking with dad. Do I tell him openly what was on my mind, or do I slant what I am saying to not appear wrong?
I looked towards the scoreboard high on top of center field, and saw something flying by--a grayish hulk with wings that covered behind the scoreboard.
The game began, the first few innings was slow, perhaps cumbersome. As things settled, the drama unfolded.
The batter laid down a bunt, and was thrown out--the runner moved to second base. I thought it a wasted at bat, I asked dad in defiance why he did that. Dad said, "he sacrificed."
He then said, " Clark, I'd like to see you lose all that anger. You know something is wrong when you feel the need to strike back at everyone, when you always feel your right, when you do more harm than good, when you don't always control your emotions, when you let vices control you, when you have that feeling in your heart of loss, and you say, I wasted things."
It was the first time he spoke to me like that, or maybe it was the first time I listened. "You know I love you son, and proud of you. I just don 't want you to be so angry about things. Stop and look at things, and have some faith."
I saw darkening clouds over the outfield.
The world's sliver of corruption runs deep whence gone casually unnoticed. I use to sit in class waiting for the professor to say something what I thought was outlandish, then pounce on it with some rhetorical political view attempting to argue through defiance his principal of ordinary views.
Was I wrong? Had I not been awakened with a deeper understanding of things?

A vender with a grayish jacket walked towards us calling out, "Hey Addison," to my dad. He stepped on the puddle, whispered in my ear, "Give your dad a bottle of water on me, and here is one for you. You know, what you're searching for can be close if you seek it. Regret can always be washed away."
He then said, " Consider all the gifts the Father has given you; your health, your friends, the sacraments, the inspirations, the forgiveness, and the path of flight."
It was nice to see dad again. We talked all day. Just being there with him spending time together. We joked a little, smiled together, stood up together, and applauded together.
My heart throbbed, my throat wrenched, my body shook when the doctor said he had passed. I brought a radio to the hospital that day so we could hear opening day, and first pitch. My mother yelled, I wanted to say goodbye to him. She crunched over sobbing.
My heart floated against my chest like a grease patch on water, and the thought, in my head, was that of something one feels when one is held captive in a dark prison not knowing his captors.
I use to argue with dad about his view of things--I saw things in what I thought was a new and better way to attack issues of poverty and economics. His way of looking at things sometimes annoyed me, I wanted him to be better. He accepted things as they were I thought--I wanted to change things to make them better. Maybe I failed to know enough. Gifts of love and appreciation I had forgot. I had forgotten what prayer was. I had forgotten what a relationship with dad was. Looking up at the ballpark sky, I saw the journey of birds fly by free in the opens skies grouped together in a flock conditioned together by their ordinances of flight.
I realized my enemy was within me, and no one else--a black hole in my chest like a grease trap accumulating sins--defiance, pride, anger, and it's only resolve was a confession of fact.
I took a breath of the ballpark air, and smelled the aroma around me. It was refreshing and free feeling.
"Father, forgive me, for I have sinned against you and against God. For years I was ashamed of you , but most of all, of myself for that. I became defiant, for why, I do not know. In the deep of things, I thought I knew the world. In the dark of things, I knew not even me. How do I say I'm sorry? I awoke too late after you had gone. My regret was my stupidity. I was too busy being angry to smell the aroma of a good."
The winged thing flew above us, and went away.
The game was over, and we strolled out in line with everyone else.
I said good bye to dad, and walked to my car, got in, pulled the choke, startled the engine, stepped on the clutch, and went forward.
I awoke that morning, and saw the date on the calendar. Things seemed a bit clear from the dream I had.
I had a thought to do something a little different, maybe go somewhere, maybe pray or something. Perhaps go visit dad at the cemetery.
They say confession is good for the soul. It is as if your your flight journey is free, unburdened as one whispers through the winded air.
Post script:
" You, O God, are my strength. Why then do you spurn me? Why must I go about mourning, with enemy oppressing me? Send your light and your fidelity, that they may be my guide; Let them bring me to your holy mountain, to the place of your dwelling,..." Psalm 43: 2,3.

Bible Psalms from the, "St. Joseph Edition of the New American Bible Revised Edition"