These days, I keep thinking of the old times. How you were so playful when we were toddlers, too strict when we were teenagers, my rock during the turmoil of my twenties, and, along with Mom, your kids’ greatest cheerleader.
Sometimes I think that I see the glimmer of the old you. Beneath the bizarre outfits and the confused talk.
Our weekend of celebrating your big birthday was wonderful. (After 90, they are ALL big.) Sometimes you didn’t really understand what was going on, but you were happy that your family was around you.
And I know you didn’t need the luncheon to be in such a fancy place. I know if we said, “Dad, we are coming over and we are eating cardboard for dinner [fiber-rich],” you would say, “how wonderful! I can’t wait to see you.”
But you might worry about whether you would get an evening cocktail.
And so I know you have not lost your mind completely.
In the light of day, you know you get confused at night and, appreciating the humor, refer to the nighttime aides as your guards.
Your kids prefer the term, body guards. So, let’s use that term, shall we?
Today, you were mostly discombobulated and, yet, and yet, you were ready to go to the aid of an old friend whom we didn’t see in the diner today, and whom the waiters hadn’t seen since last week. You called him to pay a visit and bring food. In a clutch moment, the old you comes shining through. (P.S.: Sam is ok.)
This is a hard road, Dad, for all of us, and, most of all, for you.
And yet, even in the waning days of your life and the continuing diminishing of your faculties, the essential you shines through.
You won’t ever read this. But I had to write it.
I love you, Dad.
P.S.: See you tomorrow, Dad. Same time. Lunch. But let’s change it up a little; let’s order something different. Because I cannot watch you try to put jam in your coffee or on the tomato slices that comes with your usual order of scrambled eggs.