While Mom had to run a few holiday errands, I spent a recent morning with Dad. We are grateful that he is still trudging along, even if the decline has been steady and sometimes difficult to watch. There are still glimmers of the man who raised me, and every once in a while he surfaces behind his cloudy eyes and deteriorating body. I see him most often when we share a laugh, usually over something like when he grabs at the glass of apple juice I’m holding for him, thinking it’s about to fall. It’s impossible to tell what he sees or thinks at any given moment, but when we catch each other in a laugh, it feels like it once did, even as it tugs differently at the heart.
On that morning, I fed him the rest of his breakfast, bringing each forkful to his mouth, where for the most part he would, out of habit or desire, open his mouth to taste each bite. Every few minutes I’d pause and place the straw in the cup of apple juice at his lips, which he gulped down helpfully. I’ve noticed he enjoys the juice more when it’s been cooled with an ice cube, so it’s the least I can do to indulge him in this simple addition.
Later in the day, after he’s had his fun going through arranging and re-arranging the contents of his wallet – something that harkens to his OTB days – I will bring out lunch that Mom left for us, carefully lifting each forkful to his mouth again, until he remembers and gets the hang of it. Sometimes he just needs a little jumpstart like that. Whenever he pauses and loses track, I’ll give it another try, filling a fork and telling him it’s good.
As I sat there near the sunny window of a late November morning, a memory of Dad peeling grapes for me as a kid came to mind. In that very same space, of that very same room, he had once taken the time and made the intricate effort to peel the skin off grapes and feed them to me. It was an indulgence that would not be repeated very often, but it has remained a special moment in my memory. I couldn’t have been more than seven years old, so I’m not sure why I remember it – maybe because the grapes tasted so much sweeter without their skins, or maybe they tasted better because they were prepared with such love – whatever the case, it was a happy childhood moment. As I fed Dad his chicken and rice, I knew he didn’t remember those days already four decades gone by, but I hoped he felt my love.
