I Flew 3,000 Miles for My Dad’s 80th Birthday. He Can’t Remember I Was There.
So why did I go?
“Go, just go now,” whispers Kiyana*, gesturing behind my dad and pointing toward the exit.
My brother Andrew and I glance at each other, wordlessly questioning our next move. Should we?
Our dad sits with his back to us not four feet away, hunched over the start of a craft project. Today he and the other residents are making small bowls, embossed with a faux autumn leaf. “Do you want an oak or a maple leaf?” asks the recreational therapist. Dad selects the red leaf, which is oak, and gazes at it, satisfied with his choice. It’s so strange to watch my father — a domineering, intimidating presence for most of my life— stare half-blankly at a ball of clay, trying to determine how to roll it flat. His thick hands, which once slammed tennis rackets and wrangled the grill with ease, barely make a dent in the clay, the type my daughters loved to play with as preschoolers.
My dad appears content as he manipulates the clay the best he can. Just a few minutes earlier, he was fretful.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” he pleaded with Andrew and me. We assured him we’d stay. Then we took a few steps back behind him, and the clay appeared.
