Remembering Dad

January twenty sixth is my Dad’s birthday. He would have been eighty years old today. This is the second January twenty sixth since his death. I was working in town on the twenty fifth and it was a cool, clear day. I went by the bakery at break time and went in and bought a donut, just like I did dozens of times when Dad was in the nursing home. I drove the same route over to the nursing home that I always did. Dad’s hearing was almost gone, and his confusion so bad, that food was the one form of communion that I could count on. Dad almost always would eat a donut or cinnamon roll with some coffee or milk.

On days like this I would take Dad outside to the east end of the building and we would sit in the sunshine. I would make small talk, and every now and then, Dad would say something. It might not make any sense, but it was good to just hear his voice. I’m thankful that he is not suffering any more, I sure wouldn’t wish him back on this earth, but I do miss him. I am thankful that I have the assurance that I will see him again, healthy and well and sound of mind. I suppose that on every January twenty sixth for the rest of my life, I will think of him and ask God to help me be at least half the man my dad was.

One day after I visited Dad, I hugged him and said, “I love you Dad.” He just looked at me with that confused expression. I turned and walked toward the door, and he said, “hey!” I stopped, thinking that it was going to be one of those difficult times when he wanted to leave with me. I turned back toward him and he said, “Now what’s your name again?” “It’s Ronnie” I said, a little loud so that he could hear me. “I love you too, Ronnie” he said.