“I’m ready,” she said as she struggled with the buttons on her coat. I wasn’t sure of her intended meaning. Did she mean for her upcoming appointment? Or a more permanent departure? Her heavy sigh revealed her fatigue but little more. I didn’t press the issue.
She livened up when we hit the road. The winter sky was too beautiful to ignore with its wispy white clouds sweeping across a field of blue, the sun too brilliant for her not to comment. We make our way now beneath this paler sky, but it is still beautiful and engaging. Eyes forward, we drive on to a new year and new adventures. Whatever comes, we’ll do our best to be ready.
Body hugging, slim fit, tear-away sides… my browser history looked like I was researching sexy lingerie, especially when I got to the strap–ons. If only that were the case. Not so lucky, I was on the hunt for the best incontinence products available. That’s when I realized, we’ve crested the hill. We’ve been pedaling diligently up a long, slow grade and now we’re on the downside. But we’ll enjoy the ride as long as we can, even if we’re just coasting along. Now, where can I order some tassels for those handlebars?
Memorial Day. For many, the words conjure up a weekend to party, back yard barbecues and get togethers and marks nothing more significant than the brilliant start of the summer season. For me, and for my family and for millions of others, it is a more solemn occasion. It runs much deeper than red, white and blue table decorations, plastic cups and burgers and dogs. It is truly a day to honor the fallen, those who died while defending our nation.
I learned early to appreciate the significance of the day. My father served at Guadalcanal and, later, in Washington DC. He had a distinguished career in the Army Reserves. But Memorial Day, he reminded his children, is not for the living–it is for the dead. Those who left to serve and didn’t return. It affected my father deeply and, in turn, the solemnity of the occasion was made clear to us, his flock of nine offspring.
My mother likes to explain that, when her brood was young (long before Monday holidays rearranged our calendars), many of us thought that Washington’s birthday was a holiday only because is was my father’s birthday–and therefore a holiday just for him. If it were up to me, we’d still be celebrating my father’s birthday every year as a national holiday. As a matter of fact, we’d celebrate in grand style. There would be pageantry: dancing girls and horses with plumes, in the way he once requested. He’d get quite a kick out of it, I know. Particularly those dancing girls.
Posted in A Bridge Between, A Glimpse of the 8th Child, Fathers and Daughters, On Aging Parents, The Story of 'A Bridge Between'
Tagged #aBridgeBetween, adult children of aging parents, aging parents, children and care of aging parents, eldercare, fathers and daughters, loss of parent
A Bridge Between(Original verse written 1967 October 22 by Carlo A. Pola. Notations by the 8th child.)
A word, a laugh, a tearIn those final hours, we gathered and chatted and smiled and cried.
A way back when
He was there for us, always,
A helping hand now and thenand as he’d cared for us, so did we for him.
An attentive ear to youth’s hopes and fearI spoke softly to him, stroked his hair and held his hand.
A father’s yes to a child’s requestNo questions left to answer, God’s will alone would rule.