Unsure

The theater is smaller than I expected, a store front building with 80 chairs lined up in neat rows. For some odd reason the numbering starts from the rear, and row A, where I sit, is furthest from the stage. My father, next to me, keeps his jacket on over his sweater and shirt.  We've come to see Mr. Percifield in a community theater production of Oliver.  He and I have been in only sporadic contact for the last 40 years, but in high school much of my life revolved around his.  He introduced me to debate, and to my high school boyfriend.  He coached me, accompanied me to debate camp in the summer, drove me to state and national tournaments.  He directed the spring musical and I was his student director.  A short stocky man from Southern Indiana with a big laugh, tender demeanor, and liberal tendencies, he is a fixture in my adolescent memories. In all the years I performed in front of him, I've never seen him perform.  Sure, he would demonstrate how to deliver a line, but I've never seen him on stage.  The show is entertaining, but clearly amateur, and Mr. Percifield at times seems unsure of his lines. I clap heartily and congratulate him warmly after the show.

Leaving the theater, I turn in the crowded lobby to see if my father is following me. For only an instant, I see his frailty--his white hair, confused look, uncertain stance. He pauses as if unsure how to make his way safely through the jumble of patrons. I reach out to take his arm and we walk into the welcome cool air of night.

I drive home along a familiar road of childhood.  Even though it is dark, I can see the drifting dune sand in places crossing the road, bridging the space between the lake and the forest.  The changing leaves echo my changes.  Brilliant reds, deep  golds, satiny browns. I'm walking on a narrow path of the present, somewhere between the past and the future. Unsure.