I’m bustling around the kitchen, cooking dinner, while Dad sits at the dining room table listening to the chopping and the clanging of pots and the sound of the kettle boiling. “It sounds like a very good dinner,” he says, and I am struck by the unusual way he uses his senses.
Lately, every evening, Dad gets confused about where he is. “This is my place?” he asks. When we tell him it is, he says, “So I can stay here if I want to?” We encourage him to stay, and then the next question comes: “is there a bed?” We’ve taken to leading him down the hall by the hand, first to the bathroom, then to bed. Then the ritual requires waiting while he takes off his shoes and pants, and maybe a sweater, which he hands over to be put away, then saying good-night a few times, closing the door, and slipping quietly out of the apartment. There’s something about this process that reminds me of small children I have taken care of and their bedtime rituals.
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