Saturday afternoon, I was out walking Scamp around the neighborhood when I heard this little girl shriek with delight. I turned my head, like you do, and that’s when I saw it: a young Dad, holding his daughter over his head, helping her fly. And just like that, I was her, that little girl, looking down at my strong Dad, laughing eyes filled with love.
Then, in a blink of an eye, I remembered back to that morning, me sitting with my dad, now a confused old man with sad eyes. I’m holding his hand, and he’s saying, “I don’t know. I just don’t know what’s going on.” And I’m thinking, Neither do I Dad. Neither do I.
I still see the love, but sometimes that’s chased away by fear, even suspicion. Like when he tells me for the hundredth time, “I need money. You need to bring me some money.” I’m thinking, it’s going to be one of those visits. No amount of explaining will help, no telling him he’s not allowed to have money. “Dad, if you need anything, just ask for it. Everything is included.” Or sometimes I say, “You can run a tab, you know, like down to the Brew Ha Ha.” Nothing works.
It’s hard for him. I know in my heart, it’s not the money so much as the weight of it. Dad always carried a few hundred dollars in his pocket, the bills in a money clip. See, he started with nothing. He worked hard his whole life, and knowing that money was there made him feel secure. Money clip in one pocket, keys in the other, everything balanced out: home, travel, money. Without the weight of those two things, he feels like he’s going to fly away. His empty pockets proof of all the freedom he’s lost.
Sometimes the fear in my Dad’s eyes jump to mine. Is this how I’ll end up, too? Like Dad’s mother and all his siblings except one, who died early of cancer. Is that what’s in store for me: sleeping all day in my Barcalounger, with an empty pocketbook beside me?
Yikes! I’m depressing the hell out of myself! Shake it off, Ida!
Sometimes my Dad’s mind plays good tricks on him, like when he has a great visit with his sister and brother-in-law. ‘Course, they’ve been gone for several years now. How wonderful to get to hang out with them again! Or sometimes he forgets that my mother died eighteen years ago. “She’s just out running errands. Be home any minute now.” Lucky man!
Memories are strange, right? They’re like a time travel machine: the smell of fall leaves or a pencil eraser, or the flash of that young Dad holding his daughter up high. I wake up some mornings, smell the coffee brewing (it’s on a timer), and for a split second, I can almost hear my parents in the kitchen chatting, over breakfast. Or 
coming home after a long day at the A&P, the whole house filled with the smell of supper. Sure, I know it’s the crockpot doing its thing, but again, there’s that tiny bit of me that listens for my mother’s voice: “Hi, honey. How was school today?”
Visiting Dad, I try to keep that fear at bay as much as I can. I try jumping into a stream of love and gratitude, the one that goes from the little girl I was to the woman I am now, sitting beside my once strong Dad, holding his hand, laughing eyes filled with love.
That’s it for now. Catch you on the flip side!
Hear Ida Tell It: Memories Are Strange
Three Live Shows
December 10-12, A Very Ida Christmas! at The Public Theatre in Lewiston, ME
Friday at 7:00, Saturday at 2:00, and Sunday at 3:00