I Need a Map

The rocking chair creaks as I listen to you complain to the manager about yet another thing he can’t control. I know I need to get up and save the poor man. He’s way too polite to end the conversation when you appear so upset. “Dad! Leave M. alone. He can’t fix the problem if you’re still talking to him.” “ Are you saying I talk too much?” “ Well, are you still talking?!??”  M. smiles sheepishly and sneaks off as you turn to me.  

We’re at lunch when you ask me what I think about the historical homes close to the university. We spend the rest of lunch in conversation about down payments, interest rates, and square footage. I’ve come to call these our “let’s play real estate” talks. Sometimes it’s nice to pretend I still have you. 

“I used to have a pistol in here. Here are the bullets, but no pistol.”  I gasp with delight! You remember! Oh, shit. You remember. 

“Dad, you have to let the home health nurses in when they come by.  They are such nice people and they don’t stay long.” “Well, now they really don’t stay long.”  You frustrate me and make me belly laugh. 

Your reality is different every day. The best we can tell it’s a twisted combination of parts of your past with a bit of the present. To force you to be fully in this moment would be cruel. Your brain just doesn’t allow that anymore. I’m learning that the kindest thing for both of us is for me to somehow find a hint of where you are and join you there. It doesn’t always work, but when it does it’s magical. It’s laughter. It’s friendship.