The doctor’s last count was seven.
Each stroke leaving in its wake
a little less Dad.
Less motivation.
Less vision.
Less presence.
Then he lost his license.
So Dad just sat.
Eventually losing sight
of all that made him tick.
Gave him purpose.
He was good at.
I watched the frustration
when things weren’t clicking
in his once playful eyes,
in his quick and clever mind,
and quietly mourned
the lengthening shadow
that would smother such strong light;
turning weaknesses upon himself,
and others.
The shadow strengthened,
as the once powerful figure
could no longer focus.
Spent the days crying.
The nights wandering.
His underpants,
soiling.
Conversations were now repetitions,
driven by a series of questions
he’d ask again and again
and again.
Always about family,
living and dead.
No steering away
from this endless thread.
But it’s all that remained
as he struggled for thoughts.
For words.
For himself.
The bygone body, swaggering and bold,
began to weaken,
and wither,
and fold
from all those years of sitting.
Doing hours and hours of nothing.
While cherished faces,
and times and places,
steadily stepped into the dark.
Rare became the instants
during my brief, long-distance visits,
when I saw that certain twinkle in his eyes.
When he was pleased,
about to be silly –
or incredibly Dad.
But then
alas
it would pass
and entered this man, instead.
The only thing constant
was his wheezy, cartoon laughter
which he easily summoned
to the great relief of everyone
hovering uncomfortably in his small, sad room
scattered with pictures of loved ones –
now mostly strangers.
Rarest was hearing the voice of his past,
which sang in my ear
when he used my pet name.
Summoned forth in fugitive instants.
Clear and compelling.
Making me unexpectedly ache,
and anxious
to hear Dad speak again.
But Dad never did.
Yet in that flash,
in his strong, familiar voice,
he was my beacon,
my banker
my mentor,
my tormentor,
My father.
And everything felt right.
Then it didn’t.
And I cursed myself
for not plucking from the ether
that all-too-brief moment
to stuff deep within my pockets.
and help me remember
his long and strong hugs
of immeasurable comfort.
His powerful presence.
His stubborn dreaming.
His cocky, foolish, bridge-burning scheming.
The maestro of his successes
and Master of his failures.
But grateful for the moments
we spoke about nothing
and I apologized for everything.
Though he wouldn’t remember anything.
But love is in the giving.
In the times he heard,
I love you.
So, I told him different stories
about faraway lives,
and in between the questions
and his uncontrolled emotions,
I‘d try to fill the ether
with soon forgotten memories.
With love and laughter.
And strong hugs
of immeasurable comfort.
Dog-eared Stories 