Daddy

It was his pale complexion, I think, that got to me as I turned to say goodbye. The sight of him put a knot in my throat, made me wonder if this would be the last time I would see him. My father, nearing 90, once 6' and so strong, now looking so pale and tender, bent and very thin. He was on the porch to wave goodbye as I left this afternoon, the others forced inside by the 16-degree temperature. Daddy in his short sleeves, thin slacks, dress shoes.

Even as his mind is failing, he can hold on to the fact that his baby daughter has come to see him and is leaving again. He stands on the porch in the cold with a smile on his face. He waits until I reach the street. He is so pale, his once black hair now white, the deep tan he held my entire life vanished.

We complete a ritual part of my leaving for the last 32 years. I back out of the curving drive and tap the horn, he waves and smiles and even from the street I can see the love in his eyes. His mind is sharp for a few moments and our eyes and smiles and waving hands connect over that short distance, enough for him to know that I love him absolutely. I already know he loves me back, that constant fact of my life.

He will call my sister tonight and tell her that he never hears from me, that it has been weeks since I've called. He will ask her how I am and if my life is good, how's Mike, the little dog, "oh there are two dogs now?" I try not to care, to treasure the moments I'm with him. He can be so sharp in the instant of our conversations, my visits, but has no memory from one moment to the next.

Dementia is stealing my father and there's no one to rage at, to hurt, to strangle with my bare hands and stomp into the ground. I fold up all that fury and sadness and wrap it tight and keep it put away. It sits in a tight little knot in my gut day after day, a constant reminder. I want my daddy back.