I visited my father in assisted living on Wednesday afternoons and we’d spend as much of Sunday together as he felt up for. The staff would remind him to expect me. More and more often, as I approached his room, I would see him sitting in his comfortable chair, arms on the armrests and feet flat on the floor, as still as a meditator. He was waiting. Sometimes I would stop short before he’d heard me, just to watch him watch his world unfold in his mind’s eye.
Like Vonnegut's Billy Pilgrim, he had come unstuck in time. It was always about to be the day he met Rachel, or the day he boarded the troop ship for N. Africa, or the day he swam in Lake Como, or the day he saw how far the builders had come with his first and last new home. We had brought his chair from the den of that home. It was the best seat in the house.
Oh my.
ReplyDeleteThank you for that, Nance. Sometimes the perfect moments require no more than a handful of words to reconstruct.
I love these straight from the heart posts. How sad. How lost. How it hurts. And yet, and yes, he has the best seat in the house. He's where he wants to be. It's those of us on the outside who are sitting in the balcony, in an obstructed view seat, craning ourselves into emotional contortions. He's lucky to have you... and his chair.
ReplyDeletea/b
JES,
ReplyDeleteI was hoping to hear from you on this. Memories show up as image-narratives; I'd like to try to put those out, so it's a challenge I've given myself. Thanks!
a/b,
I knew you could relate to this one, and thank you. Dad died in 2005. I have a headful of these snapshots of him and of my mother, of growing up in what DH says is the next thing to Mayberry, RFD. A dozen or so of them might be invoked in a day. I'm afraid I'll forget them.
Heart squeeze.
ReplyDeleteSo does this mean that the really cool chaise lounge chair is going to the old folks home with you?
ReplyDeleteMary Lee,
ReplyDeleteYes, which is why I'm slow to write these old stories.
Lauren,
Maybe, since it was my grandfather's; but, for comfort, those Norwegian leather recliners are first things on the Two Men truck.
Thank you for this touching post. Your writing is so, light, conveying such a heavy story...
ReplyDeleteLovely and touching. I think it's beautiful how you just wrote what your heart told you to.
ReplyDeleteAbsence,
ReplyDeleteThank you, dear. Dad wasn't heavy, so my stories about him are lasting and dear but they don't weigh me down. What a gift to give a child!
Meg,
Heartfelt writing is a goal I'd like to aim for in these Old Stories. Sometimes my right brain wants a turn, too. Thank you for your sweet comment.
Interesting that you would invoke Vonnegut's "Slaughterhouse Five". I saw that film back when I was in college, I didn't understand it at the time but I knew it had some sort of significance.
ReplyDeleteNow decades later, and listening to my own father-in-law's returns to the Utah farm and South Pacific during WWII I understand the significance of that film. I occasionally allow myself to time travel as Billy Pilgrim to my own random points in life.
The chair you describe is indeed such a device.
Robert The S.,
ReplyDeleteI think you'd get a kick out of reading Vonnegut. I see traces of likemindedness. And the illustrations are unique.
Well said, and I appreciate your reminder of Vonnegut's take on it. I confess that since my mother's most recent mental decline, I find it harder and harder to visit her. I know better, but it's just very difficult. This way of looking at her current state is helpful, thank you.
ReplyDelete