Chocolate Seeds

Dad is eating his chocolates, and he comes to one with something hard in the middle. He holds it up “Is this a seed?” he asks. What a great idea, I think, seeds so you can grow your own chocolates. But, alas, it’s an almond.

I’m opening a box and Dad is examining the packing materials. “They look like . . . if you’re drowning, you won’t . . . “ “Life preservers.” “Aren’t they?” Kate S. explains that they’re an eco-friendly packing material. “I wonder what I should do with these? I could put them under the bed. They might be valuable,” he says. He keeps examining them. “You can’t inflate and re-inflate them. Anyway, you can demonstrate that it was god-damn well packed.”

I take the new crepe pan out of the box and hand it to Dad. He holds it by the handle, like a lollipop. “This is good for playing music,” he says and bangs out a rhythm with his fingers on the pan.

Kate S. and I are talking about the various things that one shouldn’t feed a cat, among them chocolate and onions, and Dad says “I’ll have to have a list if you’re going to give me a cat.” “Dad," I said, “you’ve had a cat for years.” “Oh, my god, that’s right! What have I been giving the cat?” We had to reassure him that he gives Kristen cat food. Luckily, she’s not the kind of cat that begs for table food.

Dad is trying to tell us something. “I need holes in my socks,” he says, “I need clippings on my feet.” Then he tells us a long story about how someone, every two months, takes his cat to have her claws clipped. This is puzzling, since I cut his cat’s nails myself. Suddenly, it dawns on me – the story’s not about the cat. “Dad, it’s you who gets clipped every two months.” He reaches down and pulls off his shoe and sock, revealing an astonishing length of toenails – apparently his appointment got cancelled and this is four months’ growth, and they’re making holes in his socks. He’s going next week.

We’re trying to get Dad to move around and exercise more, since he doesn’t go out much in the cold weather. I say, “Dad, you need to move around more.” He replies, “I should walk more. I should do a lot of things more. I should fuck more.” Kate S and I are flabbergasted.

I hand Dad his one-pound weights, and he starts thrusting his arms in all directions, like a clumsy, drunk cheerleader, and with each arm motion he goes, “Bang! Bang! Bang!” until he’s breathless and tired.

Dad is having trouble sleeping. His neighbor told us he hears him walking around at 3am, 4am. Dad himself doesn’t usually mention it, but today he complains that he was up all night. “I was hectic or static, something was bothering me,” he says. “I had been going to bed at 9pm and getting up at 11am, so they said ‘we’re cutting back.’” This is a relatively new idea of his – the idea that “they” are making basic decisions about his life – “they” decided it was time for him to go blind, “they” decided he was sleeping too much. I guess “they” are kind of like his higher power.