chest. Then there’d be silence for what seemed like
forever before the cycle would start up again.
Wegotusedtoit.Helaywithhishandsacrosshisbelly,
peaceful,serene.Wesatbyhisbedsideforlonghours,
mymotherreadingtheAthensMessenger,drinkingtea,
and worrying whether my sister and I were getting
enough to eat. It was comforting to be there.
Late onhispenultimateafternoon, hebroke out intoa
soaking sweat.Mysister suggestedthat wechangehis
shirtandwashhim.Weliftedhimforward,intoasitting
position.Hewasunconscious,acompletelydeadweight.
Wetriedgettinghisshirtoverhishead.Itwasawkward
work.Itriedtorememberhownursesdoit.SuddenlyI
realized his eyes were open.
“Hi,Dad,”Isaid.Hejustlookedforawhile,observing,
breathing hard.
“Hi,” he said.
He watchedas wecleanedhis bodywith a wet cloth,
gave him a new shirt.
“Do you have any pain?”
“No.”Hemotionedthathewantedtogetup.Wegothim
intoawheelchairandtookhimtoawindowlookingout
ontothebackyard,wheretherewereflowers,trees,sun
onabeautifulsummerday.Icouldseethathismindwas
gradually clearing.
Later,wewheeledhimtothedinnertable.Hehadsome
mango, papaya, yogurt, and his medications. He was
silent, breathing normally again, thinking.