Down to the Nothing

I made Dad an Easter Basket today. I’ve never made an easter basket before, but I thought that with his new-found sweettooth, Dad might appreciate one, and I was right. He’s very excited and immediately starts eating the candy. “Do we have to give the basket back?” he wants to know. As it happens, I have converted an antique basket that has been hanging around his apartment. “No, it belongs to you.”

Some of the candies are giving Dad’s 7 teeth a challenge. “Since I’m 185 years old, it’s no wonder that some of my teeth have gone to hell,” he informs me. “Maybe you should put in your teeth,” I suggest, but he declines.

With some effort, I get Dad started changing into the fresh clothes Marie has laid out for him. Partway into undressing he says, “Take off everything? Down to the nothing?” I tell him yes, and he gets out of the old clothes and into the new ones. As we’re leaving the building he says, “I should have taken my . . . they’re sliding.” Closer inspection reveals that the missing word is “belt” and that it’s his pants that are sliding, but not badly enough to make it worth going back upstairs.

We get a cab blessedly quickly, but Dad has developed the little-kid are-we-there-yet thing. Every 20 blocks or so, he says, “we must be nearly there,” and I have to explain that we’re going to East Flatbush, Brooklyn, and that we’re not even out of Manhattan yet.

Eventually, many questions later, we arrive at Kate S’s house. I head into the kitchen to prepare a kosher-for-passover easter dinner, while Briana surprises Dad with a genuine Jamaican ginger beer. Though it’s too strong for many novices, Dad finds it delicious and drinks the whole thing, adding to my theory that his taste buds are fading and that he mostly picks up strong flavors now.

I serve dinner and Dad is eating his matzoh ball soup. “This has great lumps in it!” he says. “Those are the matzoh balls, Dad.” “Oh.” On to the roasted potatoes with parmesan and rosemary from my garden. “I’ve never had this before, it’s sharp,” he says, meaning the hard edges.

On the way back, Dad somehow gets it into his head that he lives on 30th st. “Where are we going?” he asks me, when I tell the cab driver his address. “Your house.” “But I live on 30th st.” “You live on 55th St.” “How long have I lived there?” “Forty years, my whole lifetime.” “When did I live on 30th street?” “Maybe before I was born.” “I make a lot of mistakes. I’m getting cracky.”

He’s still dwelling on his “mistakes” when we get up to his apartment. “Kitty cat,” he addresses the cat, who having greeted us demanding dinner, is eating happily, “do you realize how smart you are? You’re smarter than I am now.”

“I wonder if that trip was worth it,” he says. “It was worth it because Kate S. had surgery and she’s stuck at home for a month and it was important for her to see us.” “I feel better now,” he says “I’ve been wondering why we went. Now I know.”