8/16/09
Weird dream last night:
I was in Dad’s apartment, and I looked up and saw a hole in the wall, clear through to the sky, and cracks all around. I didn’t know where Dad was, so I ran through the apartment looking for him and saw that all the rooms had cracks and holes – the building was collapsing. Finally I found Dad, in his rocking chair, on a narrow outdoor balcony that doesn’t exist in reality. I wanted to grab him and rush out of the building, but I was afraid he would fall off the balcony, so I had to gingerly edge out and guide him in, while the building was collapsing all around us.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
August 15th: discombobulated
8/15/09
I got to Dad’s late, after seeing off the New Alternatives youth, who were going to see a production of Rent at a castle in NJ. He was asleep, so I followed the wise path best known to mothers of infants - I let him sleep while taking a moment for myself. He woke up after half an hour, completely discombobulated. He came shuffling out of the bedroom wearing a navy sweatshirt, red socks, black dress shoes, and a wine-red baseball cap. No underwear or pants. He got all the way across the apartment, then said “I haven’t got my pants on,” and reversed course, giving me a good view of his wobbly, deflated ass.
He seemed puzzled by my presence, so I said, “I came by to see how you’re doing.” “I’m doing crazy,” Dad responded. “It’s a good thing I came by, then,” I replied. Dad was genuinely puzzled, “Why? What’re you going to do about it?” “Just keep you company while you’re being crazy,” I answered.
Watching Dad sitting down, his careful maneuvering toward the seat, turning around, and gingerly lowering himself onto the couch reminds me of a plane coming in for a landing.
Sitting next to me, he says, “I’d like to drill right through you and make something great.” This sentence could be creepy, but it resonates with my artistic side and I imagine myself as part of a sculpture. “That sounds crazy, doesn’t it?” Dad asks me. “It sounds artistic,” I reply. “My mind is rolling around,” Dad explains.
I’m helping Dad reconstruct his day before I arrived. I look for clues, like a detective.“You ate a banana – there’s a peel in the garbage. You ate the leftover mashed potatoes – the Tupperware is in the sink. You ate ¾ of a donut – the last quarter is sitting on the counter. And you probably talked to Charlie Burgess at some point today.” “Crossed the Charles, the river?” Dad asks. “No, Charlie Burgess, you talk to him every day,” I explain. Dad responds indignantly, “I do not. You must be thinking of someone else.”
“I’ve wrecked everything, I guess.” Dad says, gloomily. “I don’t think you’ve wrecked anything,” I respond. To lighten the moment, I start singing the Stars and Stripes Forever. Dad joins in, singing at the top of his lungs. “You’re just a little discombobulated today,” I tell him when we’re done singing. “Discombobulated!” he says, “hey, that’s a word I’ve used all my life. It’s a wonderful word.”
Dad asks me a question. “Yep,” I answer. “Yep, yep,” he says, savoring the sound of the word, “I love that. Yep. Yep. Yep!”
“I didn’t know who the hell you were until 15 minutes ago, but now I do,” says Dad, starting to land back in reality. He starts reminiscing about his grad school days. “Three or four guys said, ‘this guy is going to pieces if we don’t do something about it, so they did something about it and it changed my life. They said, ‘you’re going to Oregon.’ I said, ‘I’m not going to Oregon.’ They said ‘you’re GOING to Oregon.’ And I shut up. Before that I was just blah, blah, blah, blah. I never did anything bad, I just did raucous things. My mom said, ‘Oh well, gee whiz, the hell with it.’ She didn’t give a damn, I guess. I finally came back and I was a completely different person.”
“What am I?” Dad asks, abruptly. There are many possible answers. I opt for simplicity. “You’re my Dad!” I tell him. “I’m your dog?” he asks. “No, D-A-D!” I yell. “B-A-G?” he tries again. “D-A-D!!” I get louder. “B-A-D?” he asks. “D! D! D-A-D!!!” I keep trying.
I’m still prepping him for Gloucester. We go through the week, day by day. “Tomorrow is Sunday, and Michael is coming to see you,” I tell him. “Nothing on Monday,” he chimes in. “On Tuesday, they cut my . . . “ “Beard,” I fill in. “And you need to take a bath.” Dad laughs like it’s the funniest thing I could have said. “That’s a good one,” he says.
“Here I am in my mid-nineties . . . “ Dad starts out. “Hey,” I interrupt, “You’re in your mid-eighties, you’re exaggerating.” “I like to exaggerate,” Dad admits.
“I’m lazy today,” I tell Dad, flopping on the couch. “So am I,” says Dad, “although my brain keeps popping, popping.” I have an image of kernels of popped corn flying out his ears.
“You know what I regret,” Dad says, “not having kids.” “You have me,” I remind him, poking him gently. “you’re only ½ a kid, aren’t you?” he says. “I feel like a whole person,” I tell him, feeling oddly indignant at being reduced to a half. Dad doesn’t respond verbally, just reaches out and pats me under the chin, the way you would with a cat.
“You know what?” he says. “What?” I ask, because this is not rhetorical – he will wait for an answer indefinitely. “I’m never going to use that word again.” “What word?” I ask, confused. “I forgot,” he says.
“You know what s the trouble?” he asks again. “What?” I reply. “If we all strip down completely, it’ll be a different world.” He pauses, apparently pondering a word of nudity. “Maybe a terrible world,” he concludes.
I got to Dad’s late, after seeing off the New Alternatives youth, who were going to see a production of Rent at a castle in NJ. He was asleep, so I followed the wise path best known to mothers of infants - I let him sleep while taking a moment for myself. He woke up after half an hour, completely discombobulated. He came shuffling out of the bedroom wearing a navy sweatshirt, red socks, black dress shoes, and a wine-red baseball cap. No underwear or pants. He got all the way across the apartment, then said “I haven’t got my pants on,” and reversed course, giving me a good view of his wobbly, deflated ass.
He seemed puzzled by my presence, so I said, “I came by to see how you’re doing.” “I’m doing crazy,” Dad responded. “It’s a good thing I came by, then,” I replied. Dad was genuinely puzzled, “Why? What’re you going to do about it?” “Just keep you company while you’re being crazy,” I answered.
Watching Dad sitting down, his careful maneuvering toward the seat, turning around, and gingerly lowering himself onto the couch reminds me of a plane coming in for a landing.
Sitting next to me, he says, “I’d like to drill right through you and make something great.” This sentence could be creepy, but it resonates with my artistic side and I imagine myself as part of a sculpture. “That sounds crazy, doesn’t it?” Dad asks me. “It sounds artistic,” I reply. “My mind is rolling around,” Dad explains.
I’m helping Dad reconstruct his day before I arrived. I look for clues, like a detective.“You ate a banana – there’s a peel in the garbage. You ate the leftover mashed potatoes – the Tupperware is in the sink. You ate ¾ of a donut – the last quarter is sitting on the counter. And you probably talked to Charlie Burgess at some point today.” “Crossed the Charles, the river?” Dad asks. “No, Charlie Burgess, you talk to him every day,” I explain. Dad responds indignantly, “I do not. You must be thinking of someone else.”
“I’ve wrecked everything, I guess.” Dad says, gloomily. “I don’t think you’ve wrecked anything,” I respond. To lighten the moment, I start singing the Stars and Stripes Forever. Dad joins in, singing at the top of his lungs. “You’re just a little discombobulated today,” I tell him when we’re done singing. “Discombobulated!” he says, “hey, that’s a word I’ve used all my life. It’s a wonderful word.”
Dad asks me a question. “Yep,” I answer. “Yep, yep,” he says, savoring the sound of the word, “I love that. Yep. Yep. Yep!”
“I didn’t know who the hell you were until 15 minutes ago, but now I do,” says Dad, starting to land back in reality. He starts reminiscing about his grad school days. “Three or four guys said, ‘this guy is going to pieces if we don’t do something about it, so they did something about it and it changed my life. They said, ‘you’re going to Oregon.’ I said, ‘I’m not going to Oregon.’ They said ‘you’re GOING to Oregon.’ And I shut up. Before that I was just blah, blah, blah, blah. I never did anything bad, I just did raucous things. My mom said, ‘Oh well, gee whiz, the hell with it.’ She didn’t give a damn, I guess. I finally came back and I was a completely different person.”
“What am I?” Dad asks, abruptly. There are many possible answers. I opt for simplicity. “You’re my Dad!” I tell him. “I’m your dog?” he asks. “No, D-A-D!” I yell. “B-A-G?” he tries again. “D-A-D!!” I get louder. “B-A-D?” he asks. “D! D! D-A-D!!!” I keep trying.
I’m still prepping him for Gloucester. We go through the week, day by day. “Tomorrow is Sunday, and Michael is coming to see you,” I tell him. “Nothing on Monday,” he chimes in. “On Tuesday, they cut my . . . “ “Beard,” I fill in. “And you need to take a bath.” Dad laughs like it’s the funniest thing I could have said. “That’s a good one,” he says.
“Here I am in my mid-nineties . . . “ Dad starts out. “Hey,” I interrupt, “You’re in your mid-eighties, you’re exaggerating.” “I like to exaggerate,” Dad admits.
“I’m lazy today,” I tell Dad, flopping on the couch. “So am I,” says Dad, “although my brain keeps popping, popping.” I have an image of kernels of popped corn flying out his ears.
“You know what I regret,” Dad says, “not having kids.” “You have me,” I remind him, poking him gently. “you’re only ½ a kid, aren’t you?” he says. “I feel like a whole person,” I tell him, feeling oddly indignant at being reduced to a half. Dad doesn’t respond verbally, just reaches out and pats me under the chin, the way you would with a cat.
“You know what?” he says. “What?” I ask, because this is not rhetorical – he will wait for an answer indefinitely. “I’m never going to use that word again.” “What word?” I ask, confused. “I forgot,” he says.
“You know what s the trouble?” he asks again. “What?” I reply. “If we all strip down completely, it’ll be a different world.” He pauses, apparently pondering a word of nudity. “Maybe a terrible world,” he concludes.
August 13: Smut nut
8/13/09
“What are you famous for?” Dad asks, waking up from his nap. I know what my claim to fame is in his mind. “Cooking,”I tell him. “I’m the one that likes to cook.”
I have to plan the menu for tomorrow’s Friday night dinner, so I pull a book of desserts from the shelf. I hand it to Dad to examine. “What is this?” he wants to know. “A book,” I tell him. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he says, “what is it?” “A cookbook,” I tell him. “You want me to open it up and find a really good dinner?” I know all the pages look blank to him now that his eyes are so bad, so I tell him, “I’ll read you a couple of recipes and you can tell me which sounds good.”
Instead of handing the book back to me, Dad opens it, like a tablet, holding it sideways. I reach out and rotate it, and then read over his arm, “apple filo napoleons.” “Apple spiders?” he asks. I read a few more. He keeps struggling to understand. “Tart!” I yell. “Like, the queen of hearts, she ate all the tarts.” He laughs, loving the rhyme. Maybe I should read him nursery rhymes, I think. “Walnut cake!” “Wal?” he asks. “Nut!” I yell, probably piqueing the neighbors’ interest. “Smut?” Sometimes I think he’s playing with me. “Nut!!!”
Dad discovers that he can guess which of the recipes I’ve already cooked, by feeling each page. The pages of recipes I’ve used tend to be marred with streaks of melted chocolate and bits of lemon rind and the occasional drift of sugar. The corners are dog-eared, and they open wider than the recipes I’ve never used. So it becomes a game. I read the name of every single recipe and Dad feels the pages and renders his guess. He’s very accurate. He comments along the way, “all kind of goo on it!” He starts brushing stuff off, and even scratching at the page, like a cat sharpening it’s claws. “I’m improving your book, don’t doubt it,” he says.
Dad gets up, goes to the door, sticks his head into the hallway, “hello-o-o-o-o-o!” he shouts into the empty stairwell, warbling the syllables so that he sounds like a giant bird. Getting no reply, he comes back in. “Must’ve been a fake,” he reports.
Dad is pondering the lack of other people his age; “I suppose the dearth of individual exiles – people have scattered and died. That’s why I’m the only one.”
“What are you famous for?” Dad asks, waking up from his nap. I know what my claim to fame is in his mind. “Cooking,”I tell him. “I’m the one that likes to cook.”
I have to plan the menu for tomorrow’s Friday night dinner, so I pull a book of desserts from the shelf. I hand it to Dad to examine. “What is this?” he wants to know. “A book,” I tell him. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he says, “what is it?” “A cookbook,” I tell him. “You want me to open it up and find a really good dinner?” I know all the pages look blank to him now that his eyes are so bad, so I tell him, “I’ll read you a couple of recipes and you can tell me which sounds good.”
Instead of handing the book back to me, Dad opens it, like a tablet, holding it sideways. I reach out and rotate it, and then read over his arm, “apple filo napoleons.” “Apple spiders?” he asks. I read a few more. He keeps struggling to understand. “Tart!” I yell. “Like, the queen of hearts, she ate all the tarts.” He laughs, loving the rhyme. Maybe I should read him nursery rhymes, I think. “Walnut cake!” “Wal?” he asks. “Nut!” I yell, probably piqueing the neighbors’ interest. “Smut?” Sometimes I think he’s playing with me. “Nut!!!”
Dad discovers that he can guess which of the recipes I’ve already cooked, by feeling each page. The pages of recipes I’ve used tend to be marred with streaks of melted chocolate and bits of lemon rind and the occasional drift of sugar. The corners are dog-eared, and they open wider than the recipes I’ve never used. So it becomes a game. I read the name of every single recipe and Dad feels the pages and renders his guess. He’s very accurate. He comments along the way, “all kind of goo on it!” He starts brushing stuff off, and even scratching at the page, like a cat sharpening it’s claws. “I’m improving your book, don’t doubt it,” he says.
Dad gets up, goes to the door, sticks his head into the hallway, “hello-o-o-o-o-o!” he shouts into the empty stairwell, warbling the syllables so that he sounds like a giant bird. Getting no reply, he comes back in. “Must’ve been a fake,” he reports.
Dad is pondering the lack of other people his age; “I suppose the dearth of individual exiles – people have scattered and died. That’s why I’m the only one.”
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
August 10th: moo-ing
8/10/09
Dad and I are sitting on the couch being hot, when he starts to make these odd sounds. They kind of sound like a cow moo-ing, so I moo, too. Dad stops for a minute and says, admiringly, “hey, you can really do it.” Then we sit there and moo together until we run out of steam.
Dad has found my notebook again and wants to know what’s in it. I read him a list of things to take to Gay Pride, “lollipops, sunblock, water, paperwork, bananas, phone, keys.” He’s impressed. “Does everybody have a book like this?” “Just people who have to remember a lot,” I tell him.
“I’ve just been sitting here here here here and there there there there, here there, here there, dee dah doo doo doo,” says Dad about his day’s activities.
I tell Dad that Kate S. had to go to the ER last night with high blood sugar and he is worried. Trying to reassure him, I get her on the phone so they can talk. “Then you’re alive, you’re inspected, you’re OK,” he tell her, relieved.
Dad decides to make fun of his eternal confusion about Brianna’s gender. “Kate and Brianna, they’re both male, right?” he says to Kate S. on the phone. When she starts correcting him, he says, “I know, I’m kidding,” and grins at his own joke.
“What are you doing?” Dad asks me. “I’m not doing anything, I’m just lying here on the couch,” I respond to Dad, who is right beside me. “That’s about what I’m doing, too” he says.
“Do you think the cat’s going to try to pile more meat on you?” Dad asks. I don’t even try to figure this one out. The cat is hiding under the bed.
I’m trying to prep Dad for our trip to Gloucester, going through all the things we’re going to do. When I get to drinking moxie, a soda that’s not available most places, Dad brightens up. “I remember Moxie from when I was a kid,” he says.
Dad wants to know if Charlie is going to be in Gloucester and is surprised when I say no. “I thought he was part of the island,” he says.
Dad and I are sitting on the couch being hot, when he starts to make these odd sounds. They kind of sound like a cow moo-ing, so I moo, too. Dad stops for a minute and says, admiringly, “hey, you can really do it.” Then we sit there and moo together until we run out of steam.
Dad has found my notebook again and wants to know what’s in it. I read him a list of things to take to Gay Pride, “lollipops, sunblock, water, paperwork, bananas, phone, keys.” He’s impressed. “Does everybody have a book like this?” “Just people who have to remember a lot,” I tell him.
“I’ve just been sitting here here here here and there there there there, here there, here there, dee dah doo doo doo,” says Dad about his day’s activities.
I tell Dad that Kate S. had to go to the ER last night with high blood sugar and he is worried. Trying to reassure him, I get her on the phone so they can talk. “Then you’re alive, you’re inspected, you’re OK,” he tell her, relieved.
Dad decides to make fun of his eternal confusion about Brianna’s gender. “Kate and Brianna, they’re both male, right?” he says to Kate S. on the phone. When she starts correcting him, he says, “I know, I’m kidding,” and grins at his own joke.
“What are you doing?” Dad asks me. “I’m not doing anything, I’m just lying here on the couch,” I respond to Dad, who is right beside me. “That’s about what I’m doing, too” he says.
“Do you think the cat’s going to try to pile more meat on you?” Dad asks. I don’t even try to figure this one out. The cat is hiding under the bed.
I’m trying to prep Dad for our trip to Gloucester, going through all the things we’re going to do. When I get to drinking moxie, a soda that’s not available most places, Dad brightens up. “I remember Moxie from when I was a kid,” he says.
Dad wants to know if Charlie is going to be in Gloucester and is surprised when I say no. “I thought he was part of the island,” he says.
august 6th: chocolate mouse cake
I arrive at Dad’s house, and he asks me, “you’re all dressed, right?” Odd question. “Yes, Dad.” I answer. “I didn’t want anyone to get shocked,” he explains. We’re the only ones there.
We sit down for dinner, quesadillas, and Dad says, “this has long strings.” “That’s the cheese,” I explain. After dinner, Dad eaches out, takes hold of two of my fingers and shakes hands with them, as though he’s congratulating me on making it through another meal.
I hand Dad a small rainbow flag I got at yesterday’s vigil for the LGBT youth killed and wounded in Tel Aviv. He examines it all over, and then blows on it to make it flutter. “Is today Gay Pride?” he asks. I explain about the shootings, and he says, about the shooter, “they really ought to shoot him. Probably, they won’t.” Then his mind wanders a bit; “I wonder why they called it gay?” he muses. “It seems to me they could have gotten a better thing than that. It is short and sweet.”
Dad’s on the phone with Kate S., and she says something about me, “Little Kate”. “Where’s Little Kate?” Dad asks her, even though I’m sitting next to him on the couch. “With me?” he says into the phone. Kate tries to explain. “You mean, I’m Little Kate?” he asks her. I poke him. “I AM little Kate,” I tell him. After he gets off the phone, he says to me, “what’s the relation between us?” “I’m your daughter,” I tell him. “That’s actually true, then,” he says, applauding. “I’d heard it before but I thought it was just kidding.”
Dad and I are reviewing tomorrow’s plans. “We’re having dinner with Big Kate and Brianna,” I tell him. “Am I invited?” he asks. “of course, Dad, it’s your house,” I tell him. “That’s right,” he says, “I live here.” “I’m going to make a chocolate mousse cake,” I say. “A chocolate m-o-u-s-e cake?” he asks. “Not mouse, mousse!” I explain.
As I’m leaving, Dad’s sitting on the couch, and he pulls me down to say good-bye. I’m off-balance but I don’t fall. Then I pretend to fall on Dad, and he laughs and laughs. His sense of humor is very slapstick these days.
We sit down for dinner, quesadillas, and Dad says, “this has long strings.” “That’s the cheese,” I explain. After dinner, Dad eaches out, takes hold of two of my fingers and shakes hands with them, as though he’s congratulating me on making it through another meal.
I hand Dad a small rainbow flag I got at yesterday’s vigil for the LGBT youth killed and wounded in Tel Aviv. He examines it all over, and then blows on it to make it flutter. “Is today Gay Pride?” he asks. I explain about the shootings, and he says, about the shooter, “they really ought to shoot him. Probably, they won’t.” Then his mind wanders a bit; “I wonder why they called it gay?” he muses. “It seems to me they could have gotten a better thing than that. It is short and sweet.”
Dad’s on the phone with Kate S., and she says something about me, “Little Kate”. “Where’s Little Kate?” Dad asks her, even though I’m sitting next to him on the couch. “With me?” he says into the phone. Kate tries to explain. “You mean, I’m Little Kate?” he asks her. I poke him. “I AM little Kate,” I tell him. After he gets off the phone, he says to me, “what’s the relation between us?” “I’m your daughter,” I tell him. “That’s actually true, then,” he says, applauding. “I’d heard it before but I thought it was just kidding.”
Dad and I are reviewing tomorrow’s plans. “We’re having dinner with Big Kate and Brianna,” I tell him. “Am I invited?” he asks. “of course, Dad, it’s your house,” I tell him. “That’s right,” he says, “I live here.” “I’m going to make a chocolate mousse cake,” I say. “A chocolate m-o-u-s-e cake?” he asks. “Not mouse, mousse!” I explain.
As I’m leaving, Dad’s sitting on the couch, and he pulls me down to say good-bye. I’m off-balance but I don’t fall. Then I pretend to fall on Dad, and he laughs and laughs. His sense of humor is very slapstick these days.
8/3: rocketing around
8/3/09
I spent the weekend in Connecticut with Kate S. and Brianna, visiting Kate’s aunt and uncle. It was a nice, relaxing weekend – we swam in a lake, went to see Harry Potter, nothing too unusual, but it was a big deal – my first time going away without Dad in years. It was a struggle deciding to go – I felt guilty about wanting to do something without him and worried about his well-being while I was away. Michael agreed to watch him, and they ran into a few problems – Dad ate all his prepared meals for the weekend on Friday, leaving nothing for Saturday and Sunday, so Michal had to be resourceful, and on Sunday, Dad drank so much prune juice that he gave himself diarrhea – but overall things went well.
Arriving at Dad’s house yesterday, I found him standing at the kitchen table, in an agitated state. Once I got him calmed down, it turned out that he was upset because the phone kept ringing and he couldn’t find it.
Sitting down, he announced “there’s a campaign going now that’s supposed to wipe me out.” Startled, I asked him what he meant. “There’s some kind of a campaign against me,” he repeated. “Everyone else is in their 30s or 40s and I’m in my 80s. There are very few people in their 80s rocketing around and I’m rocketing around.” Ignoring the paranoid thinking, which is typical of Alzheimer’s patients, I started reminding him of the people he knows who are in their 80s and are still active. When I brought up Inga, and told him that she’s still writing novels, Dad actually remembered her and said, “I used to know her well, 30 or 40 or 50 years ago.”
I spent the weekend in Connecticut with Kate S. and Brianna, visiting Kate’s aunt and uncle. It was a nice, relaxing weekend – we swam in a lake, went to see Harry Potter, nothing too unusual, but it was a big deal – my first time going away without Dad in years. It was a struggle deciding to go – I felt guilty about wanting to do something without him and worried about his well-being while I was away. Michael agreed to watch him, and they ran into a few problems – Dad ate all his prepared meals for the weekend on Friday, leaving nothing for Saturday and Sunday, so Michal had to be resourceful, and on Sunday, Dad drank so much prune juice that he gave himself diarrhea – but overall things went well.
Arriving at Dad’s house yesterday, I found him standing at the kitchen table, in an agitated state. Once I got him calmed down, it turned out that he was upset because the phone kept ringing and he couldn’t find it.
Sitting down, he announced “there’s a campaign going now that’s supposed to wipe me out.” Startled, I asked him what he meant. “There’s some kind of a campaign against me,” he repeated. “Everyone else is in their 30s or 40s and I’m in my 80s. There are very few people in their 80s rocketing around and I’m rocketing around.” Ignoring the paranoid thinking, which is typical of Alzheimer’s patients, I started reminding him of the people he knows who are in their 80s and are still active. When I brought up Inga, and told him that she’s still writing novels, Dad actually remembered her and said, “I used to know her well, 30 or 40 or 50 years ago.”
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.
“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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
