Father

My father drove twice a day every day to visit my mother in the nursing home.

Noon meal.

Evening meal.

He patiently encouraged her to eat. When she wouldn’t feed herself, he fed her. Through them, I watched that final scene of Driving Miss Daisy over and over and over.

Hoke: Looka here. You ain’ eat yo’ Thanksgiving pie. Lemme hep you wid this.

My father gently fed my mother.IMG_6956

He slowly pushed her wheelchair through the halls and for walks in the courtyard, sitting to rest himself as needed.

2015

He held her hand when they sat together.5501_10152261695866043_678688786_n

They were still two-become-one but in smaller ways that were really bigger than the ocean.

When she passed away, even though she had been disappearing in dribs and drabs over so many years, he was lost.

F is for my father, for whom I ache, who is benevolence, who does and does and does, and did and did and did.

His love and devotion for my mother sets the bar high for the rest of us,

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