I have the privilege of holding my almost 90-year-old father’s hand. I have the privilege of stroking his white hair and putting cream on his dry face. I have the privilege of seeing his face light up when I arrive and crestfallen when I leave. I have the privilege of knowing he loves me, and I love him. The past is the past; we have transcended that struggle.
I have the privilege of him calling me by my mother’s name. “You were a good golfer,” he tells her via my personage. And I now carry the burden that she carried of taking care of him. I share her joy and sorrow at the opportunity lost and gained. Do I do this for her or for him…or for myself?
Posted in honor of my father, Nicholas J.Nugent, 1914-2004
Journal Stories 