My Grandpa Dale is a silly man. Sadly silly, because of the Alzheimer's, but silly nonetheless. I like that twinkle of comprehension that still plays about his green eyes.
In a lot of ways, Grandpa still retains that "sharpness" he's so fond of detecting in other things and people. Not the saavy sort of sharpness, but the kind that comes with an outfit or a car.
You never know what you're going to get with Grandpa. Sometimes he can't remember how to put on his seatbelt. Sometimes he comes out of his room wearing hardly anything. Sometimes he plays the guitar like Joe Pass.
There are only about four topics of conversation Grandpa and I can engage in, and we return to them often throughout the day. I'm told I'm supposed to answer each repeated question as if I were hearing it for the first time.
Usually I don't have to think when I'm around Grandpa. I can answer mechanically if I want to. After all, Grandpa's questions don't really matter that much, and he won't remember the answer I give him.
But Grandpa keeps asking. Maybe deep down he knows I'm just placating him. Maybe deep down he knows I'm just paying lip service.
Maybe.
Those questions Grandpa asks, when I face them honestly, turn out to be the hardest questions anyone could ask. Grandpa can't remember very much, but he remembers things I sometimes wish he didn't.
I can't answer those questions, not today, Grandpa.
I keep tossing Grandpa my prefabricated pacifiers, hoping he'll be satisfied. But I know he won't be. Tomorrow he'll ask me again.
Will I be ready to answer?
In a lot of ways, Grandpa still retains that "sharpness" he's so fond of detecting in other things and people. Not the saavy sort of sharpness, but the kind that comes with an outfit or a car.
You never know what you're going to get with Grandpa. Sometimes he can't remember how to put on his seatbelt. Sometimes he comes out of his room wearing hardly anything. Sometimes he plays the guitar like Joe Pass.
There are only about four topics of conversation Grandpa and I can engage in, and we return to them often throughout the day. I'm told I'm supposed to answer each repeated question as if I were hearing it for the first time.
Usually I don't have to think when I'm around Grandpa. I can answer mechanically if I want to. After all, Grandpa's questions don't really matter that much, and he won't remember the answer I give him.
But Grandpa keeps asking. Maybe deep down he knows I'm just placating him. Maybe deep down he knows I'm just paying lip service.
Maybe.
Those questions Grandpa asks, when I face them honestly, turn out to be the hardest questions anyone could ask. Grandpa can't remember very much, but he remembers things I sometimes wish he didn't.
I can't answer those questions, not today, Grandpa.
I keep tossing Grandpa my prefabricated pacifiers, hoping he'll be satisfied. But I know he won't be. Tomorrow he'll ask me again.
Will I be ready to answer?
1 comment:
He asks about my love life. And sometimes about your mom.
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