We’re gonna take a little walk…

We’re down to just a few weeks now instead of those long, long months that we would have to honestly answer for dad when he asks “how much longer?” And he asks every, single, time he and I talk. That part of our conversation is predictable. He always asks; always says he thought it was going to happen, like, this weekend; always is surprised and disappointed that it’s not going to happen that soon; and then, and always, “I hope I can make it until then. I don’t think I’m going to make it.”

“It” being the day he comes home…and until he finally returns home.

Dad…you’re going to make it.

We talked this past Thursday—when he called me as I was at school getting ready to celebrate our sixth graders who are moving on to middle school next year. Dad’s sense of time and timing is either perfect, or skewed—depending upon how you want to look at it. Depending on how HE wants to look at it. When he wants to talk, he’ll call assuming that you are up, available, and wanting to talk back. No matter the time (2am dad? Really?); no matter the timing: I’m still on shift dad and in the middle of a call (Trevor), or a classroom (Kert), or the back nine (Clary).”

Dad doesn’t do himself favors in this regard—his TV is constantly on giving him the background noise and stimulus that mimics company; his blinds are always drawn “blinding” him to the darkness or sunlight such that he doesn’t get the outside feedback to help him determine if it could possibly be 2am or 2pm; even though he religiously wears a watch, I’m not certain he uses it meaningfully. And he’s looong lost the ability (or desire to care) what month it is (but when you think about it, why would he???).

Moving him in with us changes all that. The stimulus changes—more movement, more sunshine, more human (and Sammy) interaction, more nature, more space. We are hoping to provide him sanctuary.

As one nears finality, through age, one’s world closes in, grows smaller, becomes more intimate (when it comes to time, though, I think it’s different. I’ve been reflecting a lot about time—as I’m getting ready to live time through the lens of Dad. So, more thoughts about time to come). Possessions no longer matter and in fact it’s better to get by with as little as possible. One can learn to value the importance of simplicity. Dad was never interested in travel much (at least outside of Reno or Legends or Wild Horse, or wherever the nearest slot machine could be found), so his physical world right now consists of a 600 square foot apartment—at least when Trevor or Clary aren’t driving him around. That’s proving to be too small though, at least for right now. He’s still too healthy for that kind of confinement—we’re not offering him Club Med here, but we are offering a larger life. Here was a man who could navigate, with ease, hundreds of acres of farmland—on foot, on tractor, in a truck. I’m determined he’s not gonna end his life confined to a barcalounger (even if it does electronically raise and lower for him) in front of a TV.

Nights of Grief and Mystery

I’m gonna take a little walk
Through them fields.
Gonna carry me gently
For my heart to heal.
I’m gonna find me a daemon
In a dark, dark wood.

You can’t come with me
I wish you could.