1.

 

Father, are you sleeping? I am not sure. You look like you might have dozed off, but I know better. You must be thinking instead, in that thick manner of yours — so dense it makes like a curtain, severing the world away.

             Not only are you awake. I am sure, though you haven’t uttered a word, you have something to tell me. You wish to communicate. You have turned towards me ever so slightly, trusted your chin my way in guise of a nod, and your eyes are piercing.

Well, you could be more explicit, you know. You aren’t that frail yet, that sick or exhausted. But you are so used to be understood, then obeyed, with minimal effort — such an embedded habit.

             As you finally start your sentence, my hand rushes towards your head for a spontaneous caress. My fingers draw the line of your nape. My palm lingers, cupping the base of your skull as if to support it. It’s a comforting feeling — for me, at least — and so natural. I wonder why.

             Suddenly I realize the meaningfulness of such a gesture must have something to do with what’s under your skin, right there. Cerebellum? Brain stem? Hidden reservoir of things precious and mighty. Your emotions, your affects, your memories.

             Most of all, your memory, and another epiphany comes my way. Myths about Pandora’s vase, or those coffers, purses, baskets we find in fairytales, magically refilling themselves, spitting out gold or food aplenty like bottomless wells…

             All such fantasies must be born by the simple evidence of this thing we host among cranial bones—a teacup of matter where an unbelievable quantity of data are stored. Such a tiny place, such immense contents.

             And isn’t it strange how this plethora of images, narratives, notions with correlated feelings vanishes and reappears, gets collapsed, zipped, lyophilized, to emerge at a given moment like a print in a darkroom?

 

Maybe that is where the idea of god originates. Invisible, knowing it all… so is our memory. Also random, capricious, mysterious. Dad, I hold your skull almost reverently, fingertips brushing your nape. “When I won’t be around anymore,” you say, “who…

             You pause, either distracted or pondering. I finish the sentence. “Who will take care of me?” Your eyes blink. You keep silent. To make sure, I repeat, hammering the final question mark. You answer in a rush, as if time had briskly run over. “You” — or rather, in our mother tongue — “Tu.”

             The short monosyllable hits me but doesn’t hurt me. Does it wake me up? I thought I was sufficiently alert. It reaches me like a stone or a bullet. I had never realized how solid and compact a small pronoun can be. T — an unforgiving letter, definite and inflexible, ultimate like the following vowel. “You/Tu” — a last commandment. Received. Do not worry. I’ll be in charge of myself. Now, rest.

 

Crows fly across the early evening sky, briefly dotting the paleness behind the open window. A fan buzzes on the bed stand. Dad is always hot, no matter the season. High metabolism and quick blood circulation.

             There’s a book on the bed stand. There is always a book in the proximity of Father. I know as soon as I say goodbye he will turn, slowly, grab the volume and open it at the very page where he left, as he exactly recalls the last paragraph, sentence, word he read. Memory never failed him. So prodigious.  

             Yet I wonder what will those extra packages of cognisance do for him? Does he need them at this point? Clearly he does. He will feed yet another thought, another sentence to the secret bank of his mind until the minute he passes. Then? What happens when in a blink, a split second, a consciousness disappears?

 

   2.

 

Now Father is falling. He seems to lose his balance more and more often. Not sure how he manages to end up flat on his back, each time, perfectly supine, neither do I know why such posture strikes me so much. Maybe its straightness and peculiar composure have a surreal tinge.

             Father barely whines, not quite demonstratively. No one hears him. I almost bumped on him the first and second time. Now I cautiously advance through the corridor, at night, when most of the falls occur.

             Every time I found him, of course, he wore his pajamas. He must have been bound to the bathroom or the kitchen. When I asked what had happened he didn’t provide explanations. He always slights irrelevant questions, rather sparing his breath.

             Here. Once more he lies still. No, not like a corpse. Like a rag doll — the pale fabric of his nightwear melting with the candor of his head. Mute, besides that tranquil lament. Then, with a brisk, almost impatient sigh he reaches out his hand, still emblazoned with his wedding ring. I cross my fingers with his, steadying myself as he gathers his strength and pulls up.

             A sound —yet another sigh? a whine? rather a gasp but shrill, sharp, like the cry of a small animal — escapes him. Maybe he doesn’t realize. I do. I cringe. He is now on his feet.

 

Speaking of which, I am spellbound. He is wearing a pair of dance slippers, pale pink, the color of flesh. Old, and falling apart. Where did he possibly... and why? This is so much unlike him I feel dizzy, as it happens when you notice something incongruous and your brain can’t yet wrap itself around it.

             As he sees me look down in disbelief, he chuckles. Again, the sound of his giggles has a shrill note mixed in, like a wheezing, or as if he’s about to choke. Briefly, then it is gone.

             Boldly, he sets off towards the bedroom, but his whole body wavers — his balance uncertain — and he shuffles with painstaking effort, as if someone had smeared the pavement with glue.

             I hang around him like an awkward ghost, a clumsy shadow, daring not to support him, yet ready to catch him (at least try) should he crash like a quill hit by an invisible ball. Slowly, we inch our way to our destination, covering those ten feet of cold tiles during what most resembles a suspension of time.

             In no time, then, and virtual immobility, in the syrupy, murky light — a blend of the dim ceiling lamp and the first shreds of dawn peering through the back door — we land. He drops on his bed, his legs buckling below him. Seated, with bust erect, expressionless features, his sap seems to have left him entirely — a stringless puppet. As I watch him in silence, I start working on a smile.

 

The dance slippers have fallen on the carpet, against which their color veers, now more beige than rosy. They look even more battered, sad. They have lost their surreal, fairy-talish flavor. Neutrally, as if pushed by the most generic curiosity, I ask: “Where did you find them?”

             He is staring at the wall, straight ahead, and does not seem to hear me. I know better. His brain is quickly processing my question, to decide if it should be tossed into the useless pile or if it deserves a reply, which in such case should be the most economic and functional. He imperceptibly thrusts his chin towards a closet squeezed into a corner — from where he clearly dug out his footwear.

             I am not surprised, as I imagine the collection of trivia Mom must have amassed on those shelves, with no ratio besides the erratic motions of her… memory. She never tossed a thing. She accumulated random relics in all forms of containers, picturesque formations of tokens and artifacts from the past. Mom. I confess, when she was alive, I seldom caressed her nape, probably because her permed curls were in the way.

             Once more, my gaze falls on the ballet shoes, irresistibly attracted. They might have been mine, but I don’t recall. I am just struck by a hint of familiarity, simultaneous to a sense of remoteness, alien-ness. Again, for a split second I am not sure of—

             Wait. As I got distracted, Dad has turned around, pulled his legs onto the mattress. Still seated, he now drags himself backwards towards the pillows, awkwardly and with seemingly enormous strain. He looks serious and once more the shrill whine escapes him. He does not realize or he doesn’t care.

             I lean forward to help, but he frowns and imperiously shakes his head. Once he is comfortably placed he turns on his bed lamp, bright like a fog breaker. Shiny beams hit the cover of the book already in his hands, shaky fingers fumble through it while a pencils rolls over the blankets, to the side. Dad’s left hand blindly prods to recuperate the lost lead, his right grasps the thin ribbon marking the page, his brow knit in concentration.

 

Clearly, I am now redundant. I should go. Wait. Suddenly our conversation — our synthetic exchange — of a week ago comes to mind. How he wondered about who’d take care of his daughter after… How he ordered me to be in charge of myself. I can’t avoid giggling. He takes care of himself. He will until the end. Why do I bother?

             Mindlessly, needlessly, perhaps to prolong the moment, postpone exit, I exhale: “Aren’t you going to sleep?” He doesn’t hear me. Well, of course he does. As I make for the door, my eyes still on him, I see he’s working on a smile. Incredible.

             “No, sweetheart.” Is it right? “No, sweetheart” — his voice fluid, no wheeze. He has fully recovered his wind. Only, someone must have turned the volume all the way down.

             I listen carefully. The early hour is quiet. Birds are Dad’s only competitors. “I can’t, now. I need to read a few pages.” There’s a mellowness in his tone — is it peace? — as his fingers point at the door, wave me away.