Friday Afternoon
This is not the father I came to see, this man led down the hall,
my mother walking backwards, dragging her walker to balance
herself, my father pulling back in his sock covered feet, sliding
along the floor, his caregiver on one side, I on the other,
my mother having decreed that he would go to the toilet.
Somewhere on the eight-foot journey to the bathroom
we injure him. A strip of skin in the shape of an upside down
U, an inch and a half wide, hangs down his arm, bleeding
profusely. I run for a bandage and my mother says, add tape.
The caregiver and I change his diaper and his Depends, put
him in clean pajamas. It’s five o’clock in the afternoon.
Saturday morning
This is not the father I came to see, this man lying in bed immobile,
muscles rigid, hands clasped in front of his privates. My mother
and I force a new Depends on him. I hurt my back rolling him
on his side while my mother pries his legs apart and puts dry
pants over his Depends. When she’s done, she slaps the mattress
and says, “There! Did you enjoy that, Daddy?” He says no.
At the kitchen table, he won’t eat. His eyes stare at the blue
checked tablecloth. A tear glimmers on his cheek.
I lay awake in the guest bedroom across from my parents’ room
this night. It’s the first time that I pray for my father’s death.
Sunday morning
The fog has lifted. The car is packed. I need to leave but go back inside.
I’ll feed him, I tell my mom. I get out cereal, eggs, Jello, anything
he can eat with his eight teeth. We sit at the little drop leaf table
in front of the window leading to the sunporch. He eats it all,
but wants especially the banana parts in the Jello. Morning light,
white, bright, streams across him while he enjoys his breakfast.
I look around, think what to say, how to comfort him, where to find him.
His only word today, bananas. Roosters crow out in the yard, ducks
splash in the kiddie pool, the sky cool blue above rolling Sonoma hills.
“Dad,” I say, “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to take you out this time, but
it’s a beautiful day and it’s Sunday. Look how God has provided
for all His creatures and in abundance.” A hundred church Sundays
come to mind, days where my father spoke of grace, the thing he longed
for most, the divine unmerited favor of God. The light falling through
the room turns gold. “He wants you to know that He has provided
for you and that today, there is grace in abundance for you.”
My dad raises his head. His eyes are aquamarine.
©Janell Strube, 2024
Thank you for sharng the story of your dad. Loved it..