September 8, 2010

This photo was taken on Logging Road in Cape Neddick, Maine. The farmhouse my dad grew up in is just beyond the tree line.

When I walked in he was asleep, this morning. I pulled up a chair and sat right next to him and reflected on my own grief. On the table in front of me was a Saturday Evening Post magazine full of ads for Norman Rockwell paintings. As I flipped through it form beginning to end I wondered who reads this stuff. I couldn't think of anyone I know. His head tilted down, a bit to the left. His crop of white hair still abounding from his cranium like only a few days ago someone fertilized it. He sat slumped among others of his age. I bumped his knee with mine. His head slowly bobbed upward like a wave moving seaweed. He looked away from me at first and then I tapped his arm. Our eyes met. I said, "has it been raining."

As he looked away and out a distant window he said, "yes, for a few days." His head slowly tilted back down and his eyes closed. He didn't have time to realize who I was. I sat for a few more minutes among the bustle of the others. An exercise class was scheduled to start in a few moments, at 10 am and people were beginning to move into position. One resident was gyrating her hips and swaying to music that was coming from her head. I picked myself up from the chair and navigated my way around my dad. He was in a deep sleep. Walking toward the door Justin, the activities director, declared to me he thought they would be taking "him" to the Senior Olympics tomorrow. As I struggled to remember the keypad code I replied, "oh, good."

When I moved through the second door and out into the parking lot I just felt bad. To myself I uttered, "Oh God," six or seven times like a reflex. And like breathing I realized it provided no relief. I got in my truck and drove back to work.