Is it just me or is there something about the way some people say your name that makes your heart hum?
“Debbie,” he said.
I looked up from my meatloaf and mashed potatoes to meet his eyes and smiled. I love hearing Dad say my name.
“I lay on my back when I take a nap. That’s how I sleep.” Where’s he going with this I wonder and nod.
“I realized the seam of my jeans and my belt really bother the bone in my back.”
Dad’s losing quite a bit of weight these days. He can’t seem to keep it on.
“But I figured out that I can put a handkerchief in each pocket and then I’m fine!”
Red or blue I wonder but don’t ask.
“It lifts you up,” my husband says. “That would never work for me.” We laugh.
Don’t ask me how we can make a conversation about a sore back bone funny but we do.
Hellos from neighbors who love Dad make a perfect ending to supper and then we drive back to Dad’s condo together–Sam and me with Dad in his Honda and Todd following in the little convertible Dad takes it slow getting out of the car and holds my hand as we walk down the carpeted corridor leading to his door.
Once inside, I fill his water glasses, lay out his PJs–just because I want to not because he wants me to–and put a piece of cheesecake by his chair, as he dresses for bed.
It was hard to say goodbye but I noticed Todd and Sam from the kitchen window sitting on the curb in the parking lot so gave Dad a hug and a kiss goodbye “Do you have something warm to wear In the car?” He asked.
“I’ll be fine,” I said as I thought how much I loved him still worrying about me catching cold in a convertible. “I can wear Todd’s jacket if I need something,” and I leaned in to give him one more kiss.
As I slid into the car, Sam climbed onto my lap and Todd put the jacket he had brought along for me over my shoulders “Dad was worried if I’d be warm enough,” I said looking across the parking lot into the condo window he and mom used to stand at together, waving goodbye. I wanted to see him there now. I knew it would take too long for him to walk from his bedroom to the kitchen. Todd revved the engine then and as he backed up I saw Dad’s figure appear. He was waving.
I held up my jacket so he could see it and blew him a goodnight kiss.
It’s the little things I treasure now–my dad’s bandana handkerchiefs, shared smiles and nods, the outline of a hand waving to me from a window across a parking lot, a jacket thrown over my shoulders unexpectedly and especially the sound of my name spoken with sweet familiarity and with love.
