27

 

David calls me from the basement intercom to ask me to come down. When I get there, he’s standing in the doorway of the garage with his hands on his hips, surveying the lawn and landscaping.

“Last time you have to mow this season, huh?”

“Yeah, last time. But you know, I kind of like it. I sure did enough of it growing up. It’s nice to see the immediate results of hard work.”

“Unlike with building homes.”

“Yeah, those results aren’t immediate. I usually have to wait a year to appreciate my hard work. But this . . .” he pauses as he looked around, “this is immediate gratification.”

He points to the boxwoods, and then to the garden of plants and shrubs, and asks, “What do you think?”

He’s trimmed the boxwoods and weeded the garden area, and the landscaping looks perfect. I tell him so, then give him a quick smack on the lips, even though he’s sweaty.

“Okay, let me put this stuff away and I’ll come in and shower.”

“Good, and then I’ll tell you about Dad and Nick connecting over food again.”

His eyes light up. “They did?”

“Yes. But I wonder if that’s the only connection they’ll ever have.”

“It’s an honest one,” David says, shaking his head.

 

 

The hand-knotted Persian Tabriz carpet under the dining room table has taken a beating since Dad became a regular at our table.

Even though I put a bib around his neck and a towel on his lap when we eat, he still gets a fair amount of food on the rug. I sit right beside him to cut his food and help him with eating. He either allows my help or insists on feeding himself, using specially designed utensils. They have a unique angle with a large grip to make them easy to hold, perfect for people like Dad whose hand can’t completely close around normal cutlery. They also help to align his hand to prevent food from tumbling off before reaching his mouth.

Even using these utensils, there’s more of a mess to clean up when he goes it alone. When I help him, I usually manage to get most everything into his mouth, but sometimes he jerks before I get the food all the way in, and it tumbles off the utensil and down his bib. Sometimes he reaches down with his stiff and shaky fingers and tries to retrieve something. I don’t stop him; I just wait until I have his attention again so I can give him the next bite.

I’m happy Nick has taken up his position under the table again, diligently vacuuming the rug with his tongue, saving me the work. When Dad drops a piece of hamburger for the lurking Lab, I keep quiet. But that doesn’t mean I’m happy about my carpet being deliberately soiled. As if reading my mind, David reaches over and squeezes my hand. “It’s just a rug.”

Yes, it’s just a rug. Even though it had cost ten thousand dollars when we bought it, it has no value now except to make the place we gather for dinner more inviting. That is its purpose. I nod in agreement.

Out of the blue, Dad speaks up and says, “The way to a dog’s heart is through his stomach.”

We all laugh and agree; but even as I laugh, my eyes tear up. Dad’s just told us he is trying to win Nick’s heart.