The Man In The Room

I wrote this piece in 2009, a few years after my dad passed.  

The Man In The Room

As I walk into the room, my eyes are drawn to a man sitting on the couch, lost in thought.  I watch him for awhile, taking in the changes.  His balding head once shiny is now dulled by age.  His eyes once bright and sparkling blue are now clouded as if in a fog.  The look on his face is nearly vacant – or merely lost in thought. 

I find myself wondering where he is, not physically of course, but mentally.  Time travels in the brain. 

Perhaps he is in one of the many homes he was shifted around to as a young boy, not having any permanent place to call home due to parents unable to sufficiently care for him.

Maybe he is on that Navy supply ship out in the Pacific during World War II.  A time remembered not only for the loneliness of being away from home – but for the love letters written home to a girl he hardly knew.

Could he be thinking about the job he held for over 30 years?  A tool designer by trade – the pen and paper type as computers only came in to play in the last years at work. 

Then again, could he be thinking about his family – five children all grown up?  Or is he remembering them as children sitting down to dinner each evening promptly at five thirty when he returned home from work?

I’ll never know where he was that day, sitting on the couch staring forlornly at the mustard yellow walls of the living room – for when I enter the room with a smile on my face and say, “Good morning, daddy!” his frown becomes a smile as he raises his arms up to give me a hug and says, “It’s good to see you.  I’m so glad you’re here!”

*Note:  Undiagnosed at the time, my dad was going through what we now know was dementia. 

The photo below is one of the last really good ones of him at my Uncle's house down the street as he enjoyed a barbecue.