Wednesday was another visit with my parents. Mom continued with her inquisition, focusing again on my deceased wife intermixed with adament statements about how she was not my mother. We vacillated between being siblings and being distant relatives.
I tried a new track and asked them both what they wanted for Christmas. Dad didn’t answer. He barely lifted his head. Mom paused for only a second before answering, “Come over and have dinner with us.”
Huh! I hadn’t expected that but thought why not! I know their favorite food, fried chicken and coca cola. Something even I can do. Christmas dinner it is.
It was lunch time so I walked Mom to her table. She held my hand and high-stepped behind me. She was happy. I then went back to Dad and waited for his wheelchair to be brought out. Dad was barely responsive to all questions or comments so I just sat quietly next to him and looked across the room at Mom ensuring she was still alright and that she stayed in her seat at the table, when I felt it… a hand, my Dad’s hand.
Dad had placed his hand on my knee. His eyes were still closed, his head down, but he’d gently laid his hand on me letting me know we were still connected.
No words necessary.