Being Present

I'm sitting with my dad at the restaurant. He lifts his wine glass, leans it slightly toward me, raises his eyebrows, and I raise my glass, and we clink. I keep looking at him, then I get the giggles. They start deep in my belly and start to rise up. I really shouldn't... There's nothing to BE laughing at.... And yet... And yet... I start laughing.

"What's so funny?" Dad asks.

"Nothing at all, Dad," I say, now wiping the tears away. "It just feels so darned good to be here with you."

He starts laughing. Now we're both laughing, louder now. I see the waiters behind us by the kitchen, looking at us.

A new feeling starts in my belly and spreads out through my whole body until the tears in my eyes aren't from the laughing. They're from the gratitude. I feel normal. Dad feels normal. "This" is normal.

Dad has difficulty standing now, and more difficulty walking. He is tired a lot. I make the 193 mile drive west every chance I get, in between home, and cabi, readings, my Essential Closet work, and my family. But it never seems like enough. I feel like I should, could, just STAY there with Dad. I don't think he'd like that very much, though. He doesn't really like us 'hovering' over him too much. I understand.

But I know he loves me being there. He trash talks me while we're playing cards that night after dinner.

"I suppose it makes you feel really great to be kicking my butt, Dad," I say.

"Yeah - it DOES feel pretty good. But it's really not that hard to beat you," he replies, smiling.

I get quiet, then say what I have been thinking for the last few months.

"You know, Dad - just because we can laugh and joke and be light-hearted doesn't mean that I don't understand what's going on for you. You know that, right? I just love spending time with you. You're always YOU, no matter what you can or can't do."

He nods.

I don't know if he likes talking about this, but sometimes I feel like he is in a bubble, looking out at the rest of the world, laughing and smiling and being his usual upbeat self, but inside that bubble, he may feel isolated, separate, like nobody really knows what it's like to be in there. And I may be making all of this up, but what I want to say is that I want to just be present with my father, every step of the way. I want to always say what I want to say, and I want him to say what he wants to say. And I always want him to know how wholly I love him. I think he knows.

I have to leave. I lean over his bed and resting my hand next to him I can fully reach him. I kiss right above his left cheek and feel his soft beard against my chin. Kiss kiss.

"I love you so much, Dad," I say. "Always."

"You're my precious bunny," he says.

"And you're MY precious bunny," I answer.

It's hard to see as I walk out of the home, heading for my car and back to MY home.