Walking Sadly

I get to Dad’s house and find him in bed, listening to a book. He hasn’t even heard me come in, so I flop down on the bed beside him. Noticing me, he fumbles for the red “off” button. Neither of us is in a hurry to move, so we just hang out there, talking. For a few minutes it feels like the old days. “Are you going to quit your job?” he asks. I’m a little stunned because I have worked hard to keep any of the issues at work and other stressful stuff, away from him. “I remember,” he says, “you were walking sadly.” Walking sadly? Can my very motion give me away? “I watch you,” he adds, confirming it. Even with his limited vision, he must get some kind of overall image or vibe, so even while I’m carefully arranging my face and regulating my voice, the rest of me is radiating emotion that he can pick up on.

Dad and I are listening to “Magic of the Panpipes,” a cd of classical music and showtunes played on the panpipe. At one point, the music swells, and I tell Dad “It’s very dramatic.” “Yes,” he says, “the ghost is about to appear now,”and then, as the music gets gentle and springlike, he adds “the two lovers are here.” He doesn’t appear to actually know the piece, so, as far as I can tell, he’s totally making it up, but it’s completely appropriate. Every ten minutes or so he asks, “what’s the main instrument?” and I tell him “Panflute,” but it just doesn’t stick.

I give Dad a piece of bubble wrap I have saved for him – it came from a ceramic supplier, so the things to pop are larger than usual and Dad says, “this is a biggie.”

Dad doesn’t usually like pizza – he calls it “leather with stuff on it,” but tonight he asks for it. Unfortunately, he proceeds to eat the crust first, and then asks me what he’s supposed to pick it up by. I roll it up for him, burrito-style - so he can finish it.

Panpipes over, I put on the Indigo Girls – totally different, but Dad goes with the flow, rocking his chair and nodding his head to their rhythms. One thing that makes Dad easy to take care of is that he’s just not picky at all. He’ll eat almost anything, he enjoys all types of music, and his general attitude is that he’s up for anything.

“Your forearms aren’t getting all knotty, are they?” Dad asks me suddenly. “No,” I say, “it takes 70 or 80 years to get them like ,this,” he says, holding out his arm.