The year of our Lord 1971. That’s the last time I saw him. I meant to call or go see him but time got away from me.

No, that’s an excuse. I thought about going to see him hundreds of time, but thought about it enough each time that I didn’t take any action. I did call once, in the ‘80’s, when I was home on leave from the service, and that went OK. I promised to stop by, but time….

 
His Mother was ill, and I sent word that I would come by, but time… She died awhile back, and I meant to go to the visitation, or the funeral, but time… After all, we were family of a sort once, and maybe we still are, according to how you define it. He was my stepfather, which would make her my what? Step grandmother? Is there such a term? Maybe Grandmother, or maybe nothing, I’m not sure. How do you define family? He was my stepfather, and maybe still is. My mother divorced him, and did that accommodating judge severe my ties to him as well. Was the divorce like when a surgeon cuts away an offending tumor? Is the tie severed because my mother died, or is it still there? If the tie’s not there, why do I even remember it?
His mothe

Time. Is it ever ticking away, inching further from the “then” to what?
The “never? Soon the choice will be gone. If I don’t go, will I have regrets? If I do go and sit a while does that absolve me for all of these years in which I did nothing? Do I get a special dispensation because he’s in an old folks home and won’t even know me? Because if I know, is that all that matters? If he dies and I have not gone what part of me goes to the grave with him?

Maybe each of us should go, and go often. Maybe each of us have to remember even one good thing and cling to that until it compels us to go and see our afflicted, our lonely, our discarded. If those sad persons can bear the past then can’t we able bodied, we sane, we strong ones go and sit a while? If we do go, will time stop its merciless march? Will we each be absolved of all wrong?
Time.

Brother by Another Mother

We watched the raccoons from our upstairs window.  The three of them attempted to eat the entire truckload of soybeans, but finally gave up.  As they climbed down, the portliest fell to the ground.  I thought it was hilarious, and went outside to get a closer look.  When they saw me, they ran around the barn and I knew they had climbed to the roof when I heard the click- click of their claws on the tin.  I was almost rolling in laughter when I heard click- click-screech- thud.  The clumsy one slid down the roof and dropped like a bean filled bag of fur.

I imagine the other coons got a good laugh at his expense.  Then I realized the clumsiest was akin to me. I was watching my brother of another species. Maybe he’s a karmic twin.

Maybe he’ll compensate for being inept at raccoonery by studying hard and learning to write witty stories.  Perhaps he’ll use his clumsiness to make the other raccoons laugh and attract lady coons.  Maybe in years to come he’ll move to a small town and complain about the raccoon government.  Do you think he’ll retire from raccoon affairs and yell at the young raccoons to turn down their stupid music and pull up their furry pants?  We’ll have to wait and see.

Fight Against the Night

I believe it’s called “sundowning”. The night is worse for her. The night is when she’s the most confused. She’ll ask me if I know her, and I reply I do. She’ll say she’s afraid because she doesn’t know where she is. I reply that she’s where she is supposed to be, and that she’s with people who love her.

The girls let her sit in the nurse’s station. That seems to help for a time. After a while I ask, “May walk you to your room?” She says yes, and takes my arm. We walk arm in arm, talking about the weather, or how nice her hair looks, or some other small talk. When we arrive at her door I thank her for the walk and bid her good night. I reach in and turn on her light, as the dark seems to be her enemy. I point out her familiar things arranged on a shelf and see a glimmer of recognition in her eyes. I like to think that I help her relax, to not be so afraid.

The day is different. She’s the alpha in the dining room. When I walk by she calls me a smart-alack or swats at me as I pass. She plays the piano but stops abruptly because she’s forgotten how. She tries to tell me something, but can’t find the words. We play a guessing game until her patience wanes and frustration takes over. It’s night again. Perhaps it is new to her. Perhaps it’s déjà vu. She takes my arm….