Closing Time

The room sat in heavy silence, interrupted only by the low and persistent hum of the fluorescent lights. The noise pressed the silence deeper into my bones.

"Take all the time you need," my doctor offered after telling me I had less than a year left to live.

“Is that a joke?” I quipped. I gathered the stack of pamphlets he’d handed me—support groups, grief guides, instructions on breaking the news to family—none of it felt real in my hands.

I had no intention of telling my family. Mainly because I was estranged from my daughter, and she was the only one who mattered. It was a series of arguments; each conversation seemed to chip away at our bond, eventually leading to the silence that now defined our roles.

She was a first-year college student, and while part of me ached to confess my diagnosis, desperately hoping it might spark forgiveness and reconnect us, I couldn’t stomach the thought of wounding her just to soothe my own loneliness. I’d manipulated too much already.

I watched Dr. Chen as I stood. He barely reacted. He’d probably heard different versions of denial, acceptance, and bartering in his office. He knew I was absorbing the death sentence and would deal with it in the best way I knew how.

The pamphlet bundle could be helpful. I’d spent so much time without a wife, a partner, or anyone at all that I was used to scaling mountains alone.

After leaving the doctor’s office, I did what I always do. I blasted upbeat music, desperately wishing banging drums could drown out the ache gnawing at me. Each beat reminded me of the love I failed to nurture and the faith I’d betrayed. Facing death, I could finally stop lying to myself, even if I still kept my suffering private.

I’ve never been an emotional eater, so while my sister might eat a pint of ice cream to appease her inner critics, I preferred hiking. I always kept my hiking gear and a day pack in my car.

Instead of heading home, I rerouted to a familiar trail that gave me time to think since it was usually empty. Once there, I parked and unloaded my day pack. While outside of the car, I fished through my bag for my outer layer, a windbreaker from the North Face, and quickly allowed myself to be engulfed by its warmth. I put my day pack on my back, cinching the waist belt, then the chest belt, before locking the car and heading towards the trail.

As I breathed, I could see the puffs of dense, cold air in front of me. I walked along the paved road until I reached a dirt road, then followed it until I saw the signpost marking the start of the trail. I liked to track my mileage and count my steps, so I started tracking on my apps before I took my first step. My feet crunched in the dirt, and the familiar sense of happiness warmed my thoughts.

On the trail, I was free from the worries of the real world, absorbing the wilderness and immersing myself in the complex and beautiful world that many were too busy to see. The fresh snow had been packed down and was interspersed with frozen, rigid leaves and gravel that reminded me of peppermint bark with the frozen red berries as it pebbled under my feet. I stepped around them and over them, ignoring the way they dug into the soles of my shoes.

I didn’t put my earbuds in, but the birds chirping and the scrambling squirrels in the trees were my soundtrack. I heard a rustling and stopped just in time to watch a deer walk by about fifty feet in front of me.

Whenever I stopped, it walked. When I walked, it ran. So I learned to take my time in nature and not rush if I wanted to enjoy what I was seeing.

This gave me purpose. After retiring young from the only job I’d known since I was eighteen, hiking was my new hobby/addiction. I kept walking around the bend and saw the lake sprawled out in front of me. A few boats were enjoying the frigid waters. I thought how nice it must be to have a boat and enjoy the water like that.

My sister, Claire, the successful explorer, had a job overseas in the Philippines. She’d been there for five years already. She’d met the love of her life, married, and had two sons. I was happy for her.

I’d been in love once. Not with my daughter’s mother, but someone many years ago when I was younger. Now I was very single, and it just hit me that there was a very real possibility that I would die alone.

Some people had a partner to take them to doctor’s appointments and cater to them in their last days. I had a dog. He couldn’t drive, so that left me to drive myself or take a rideshare.

I’d recently joined a Men’s Group at church and made a few friends, but I wouldn’t expect them to take on the task of driving me to the doctor or fulfill my emotional needs. We meet every week to talk about the messy realities and struggles with adultery, addiction, and anger–and the constant need for forgiveness that Jesus offers. Besides, they were all tethered and in healthy and happy relationships now. I’d carry on as if nothing had changed.

At this point, I’d hiked about three miles. Time flies when you’re having fun hiking. I saw another pathway that wasn’t on the trail and decided to veer off. What did I have to lose? I loved to explore; that was part of the freedom of hiking.

I ended up finding a gazebo of sorts and stayed there for a few minutes. I refueled with a protein bar and drank some electrolyte water. The view was incredible. The jagged mountains were colossal spires draped in brilliant blankets of untouched snow. They looked unreal. I cried.

I cried because I would miss this. I would miss the beauty of this world and everything God gave us to enjoy that we overlook every day. I cried because I had no one to share this with. My fingers itched to send the photo to my mother, whom I used to share photos with before she got sick and died. Sometimes my thumb would hover over the send button before reality sank back in. I still had her number saved in my phone. I hadn’t had the desire to remove her from my phone even after seven years. I’d hug her soon.

I wiped my cheeks, put my half-full electrolyte water back into the side pocket of my day pack, and returned to the trail. It had been a nice detour and was definitely worth it to see the view.

As I continued on the main trail, I heard another rustling in the bushes ahead of me. Thinking it was another deer or even another hiker, I was shocked to see a skunk. I stopped and slowly backed away. I allowed the skunk to move at his own pace without disturbance.

I decided it had been a profitable hike and turned around to the trailhead. In total, I’d hiked about ten miles and enjoyed immersing in nature. Everything was so alive, and fighting to survive. This was my element.

I reached my car and tossed my day pack onto the passenger seat. Hiking had a way of drowning out the noise of regret as I enjoyed nature’s soundtrack, at least for a while. I pulled out of the parking lot; the sun was starting to dip, and the temperatures dipped even further.

As I drove home on the quiet, mountainous, winding road, I drove slowly, much to the dismay of anyone behind me. They could pass me if they wanted. I needed to enjoy every second I had remaining and wouldn’t rush it because an impatient person believed the speed limit was a suggestion.

I thought about my daughter and our last conversation. She’d been screaming for independence, but I could only see her as the baby girl I’d raised alone for eighteen years. I remembered her cute cherub cheeks and each stage of life she encountered. But I also remembered the difficult high school years and the unnecessary arguments we’d gotten into when I kept her away from friends I believed didn’t have her best interest at heart.

During our last meeting, I’d said some harsh words because she’d become so cantankerous towards me that it bordered on disrespect. She’d decided to return to college, cutting her visit home short. I stood in the road, solemn and stoic, watching as she drove away, presumably to return to her dorm.

After she texted me she arrived safely, we haven’t spoken since. It tore at me on the inside. She was all I had. My pain evidently meant nothing to her, but my heart wasn’t hers to hold. I knew I would have to deal with this on my own. Just another punishment for things I had gotten wrong in this life. It was the beauty of being a father, only to be kept at a distance from the thing I dearly loved.

When I arrived home, I sat parked in the driveway for a few beats in the silence of my car. I got out of the car and went around to the other side of the car to grab the half-drunk electrolyte water. A thin whistle of wind blew around, and the dry air stung my lungs. The air was clean and crisp this high up away from the city.

The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees from where I’d just hiked. I stood in the driveway and looked up at the vast, dark blue vault of the sky. I could see the stars. They stood utterly silent. In five minutes, the driveway was covered with a thin layer of light fluffy powder, and a light dusting was already forming on my car.

“Hey Matt, how’s it going?”

It was Steve, my neighbor and a state park ranger. He and his family had moved next door about five years ago.

“Meteorologist was right, Steve. Here it comes.”

“Ski resorts are gonna love this,” he chuckled.

“I agree. There’s something about a fresh coat of snow. It’s like the cold is giving the earth a second chance.”

“Clean slate. Have a good night.” He returned to his house.

I resumed watching the snow fall. I thought of the forgiveness I hadn’t sought, the gift I hadn’t earned. And yet, the snow fell all the same.

Snowflakes danced their way down to the ground. I thought about how the snow didn’t care about the year I had left. It was a fresh start from some other beginning’s end.