Gilead

John was just listening to a song on the radio when his wife came in, embraced him, and gently danced with him to the music. She asked him, “Why’d you have to be so damn old?” John wonders the same thing.

A few days ago, John saw his wife and son come in with flowers, and he knew at once where they’d been. She takes their son there “to get [him] a little used to the place.” His son showed John some honeysuckle he’d picked and taught John how to suck the nectar from the blossoms, and they laughed together.

That afternoon John was struck by the way the light felt, like a weight resting familiarly on everything. His wife brought the camera out and took pictures of the father and son sipping honeysuckle nectar. But, as usual, the film ran out before John could get a picture of her. She always hides from the camera, not believing she’s pretty. John doesn’t understand why. He would never have dared ask her to marry him; it was all her idea.

John would never have believed he’d get to see his wife doting on his child. If his son ever wonders what he’s done with his life, he should know that he’s been “God’s grace to me, a miracle.” He wishes he had the words to tell him that.

John reflects that his son is nice-looking and polite, but it’s his existence he loves him for—existence seems to him the most remarkable thing imaginable. By the time his son reads this, John will have become “imperishable, somehow more alive than I have ever been.” He doesn’t want his son to think he’s waiting for him in heaven, though, because he wants his son to live a long time and love this world. He can’t imagine not missing this world, even as he longs to be reunited with Louisa and Rebecca and has long wondered what that will be like.