On his way to help me peel potatoes for our dinner, Dad crashed his tank of a power wheelchair into his walker and snapped a walker leg. First came subdued cursing. Then came open self-deprecating laughter. "I crashed into my walker!" he grumble-chuckled, then began peeling. With only three people, we needed only five small potatoes. Back in his recliner for a dinner of Costco meatballs, mashed potatoes, and steamed broccoli, he pointed to the framed 8x10 of Sarah surrounded by her nieces and nephews, his grandchildren. "I love this photo, Rog," he explained. "I find it quite comforting." I felt relieved, since I had given him the photo, and I felt a glimmer of enlightenment about his turning the portrait of Sarah and him face down on the table: perhaps he simply does not like looking at his 88-year-old self; or, just as likely, perhaps he does not like seeing Sarah with only himself, being reminded of the "giant hole" he still feels and likely will always feel. Sarah stays with me, at least, in the sense of having her portrait on my desks at work and at home. Still, the family feels smaller to me. We were six sibling and now we are five. I had four sisters and now I have three. We were two Brazilian-born babies and now we are one. Sarah is simply irreplaceable. But I can say the same about my four living siblings: each is unique and remarkable in their own ways. Munching on meatballs, we watched the tenth episode in an animated science-fiction series rated TV-Y7. "Is he the bad guy?" Dad asked, and I said simply, "Yep," but continued soto voce: and he's the same bad guy we've seen in every episode. As the 24-minute episode ended, Mom queried, "Explain to me what happened?" so I elucidated the plot and character basics. After understanding the show, they asked to see another episode. "Is he the bad guy?" "What happened?"
(Photo used under the Fair Use Doctrine.)
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