july 30th: wedding ring

“What do you look like?” asks Dad, a strange question to be asked by your own Dad. I described myself as best I could – I’m short, with long red hair (which I let him feel), glasses, green clothes and a big bag. “After all, “ said Dad, “you’re older than I am.” “No, I’m not,” I told him. “How old are you?” he wanted to know. “33,” I answered. “Jesus!” he exclaimed in surprise.

“Are your mother and father still alive?” he wants to know. “No, my mother’s dead, but you’re my Dad,” I tell him. “I didn’t realize that I was getting so old,” he says, “I’m getting to be very old.”

Dad’s hands are wandering across the table again, feeling every object he comes to. He discovers a ring that someone has left on the table. “What’s this?” he wants to know. “It looks like a wedding ring,” I tell him. He tries it on each finger, and then, finding a finger that fits, leaves it there – ironically, the fourth finger of his left hand.

Searching for conversation topics, I tell him about the sculpture I have just been working on, a small person being crushed by a giant brain. “Is all your stuff like that?” he wants to know. I don’t know exactly what he’s asking, but I describe the sculptures in his apartment, one by one, and hand him one to feel.

Dad comes across my notebook in his exploring. “If you leave it here, it’ll be damaged, banished,” he tells me. “Lost?” I suggest. “Yes,” he says, satisfied.