Taco Salad

I’m still shaken by Dad’s not remembering my name, even though logically there’s no reason why that particular piece of information should be protected from the deterioration going on inside his brain. On a deep, maybe primal level, though you just expect your parent, the person who was part of your naming (though my mother rejected Dad’s suggestions, including his mother’s name, Grace, as too old-fashioned and New Englandy), to remember your name.

Lately, Dad’s been leaning way to one side, making himself burp. This time he did it and nothing happened. “It didn’t come,” he said, trying the other side. Still nothing. “No one wants to throw up,” he said. I had a momentary, hilarious image of a crowd of tiny people inside him, then got myself under control and said, “You mean burp, Dad.” “Durp?” he asks. “No, B-U-R-P.” I spell it out. “Burp. Burp, Burp,” he says, over and over, like someone learning a new word in a foreign language. “Is it a real word?” he asks. “Yes, I guess I’ve heard it before,” he answers himself.

I order Dad a taco salad, the kind that comes in a bowl made of a hardened tortilla, because I know he will be fascinated and he is, though it takes me three tries before I manage to convince him that the bowl is, in fact, edible. “What will they come up with next?” he asks, breaking off a piece and chewing on it.

Dad is tapping his feet, the same rhythm over and over, so I join in, rapping my pen on the table. We both instinctively stop at the same moment. “Very good,” says Dad, looking pleased.