My Dad has not been sleeping at night lately so usually when I come visit in the morning he is passed out. He’ll open one eye, say hiya, and then go back to what looks like a sound deep sleep, his chest rising and falling, his mouth open, a little snore. I stare at him, at the tiny veins in his nose and the lines in his neck, the unshaved cheeks and the wide puffy fingers, and I’m reminded of staring at my children the same exact way when they were first born. What a wonder they were, perfect and beautiful, sweet and soft, tiny little people. I remember catching myself and asking, how long have I been sitting here staring?
Of course it’s different with my Dad, my mind goes backwards not still or forward, and he’s no where near as smooth and sweet-smelling, but there is the same wonder: who is inside of that body and what will it do next.
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