Mostly, I'm OK with that.
It's a privilege to sit by his bed or wheelchair and simply watch him sleep. (There are occasions of desperation, less frequent now, when I silently implore him to remember---teetering between sadness, the "giving-up" kind, and anger of wanting to shake him to remember---to say anything, to string a few words together, even if they don't make sense.)
Today was one of those common "sleep in the wheelchair" days. Sometimes I can tell his sleep is more peaceful than others. Out of the blue, his left eye peeked open and he spied me. I was clearly in his line of vision. Recognition crossed his face. "Hi there!" he said. ".....beautiful...."
I came closer to put my hands on both of the arm-rests of his wheelchair, so I was right in front of him. "I'm glad to see you, Dad, I love you."
"I love you, too." He held my gaze a moment longer.
Then, like somebody flipped a switch, it was gone. He was back into oblivion, out of my reach. He slept soundly again.
I can visit Dad for "a month of Sundays" and not have as much lucid "conversation" as I did today. Those 15 seconds were worth countless hours of his silence. The sunshine streaming through the window seemed to shine a little brighter.
