dad

Dad, 24 x 18, charcoal on paper

My father has dementia. Each time I talk to him, it seems he has less and less to contribute to the conversation. I believe he is genuinely happy to get my calls, to hear my voice, to laugh at my stories, to celebrate the precious moments of life.

But my rye observations about growing older no longer bring up his own commiserating stories. His stories are lost in the unnavigable places in his mind.

Some days I feel the loss of my father as unbearable. I want to have him sing "King of the Road" with me, or a few verses of "You Can't Roller Skate in a Buffalo Herd." But, he can't. I still sing to him, though. You can be happy if you've a mind to...

And this week, I reminded him of his obsession with the rock opera, "Tommy" back in the 1990s. He must have seen the film 100 times. He bought the record and played it so much at home, I think he wore it out. He knew all of the songs by heart. 

Since Dad can't remember anymore, I'll just remember for him. A daughter can do that.

Here, Dad, this is for you.


"Pinball Wizard" by The Who.