I've been trying to remember my father's hands. He had swarthy skin and straight black hair. "From Yemen," a cousin said. Spain and Eastern Europe, too.

Though we had not seen each other for many years, we spoke often on the phone. When, at age 90, he entered advanced Alzheimer's Disease,
I visited to say goodbye. It was almost midnight when I arrived at the Florida condo apartment.
He emerged from the bedroom bleary-eyed, and asked Mother, "Who is this man?" "He's your son," she replied.

Two weeks later, on the day before I left, he placed his hand on top of mine, and without speaking he spoke to me, father to son, for the last time.

We are getting ready to leave. There is a baby, a seemingly happy child. Mother says that he is not happy but nervous, because we are preparing to leave. Even though he may be too young to understand, i tell him that leaving is natural, and that he is going to like where we are going, although i've never been there before.

 

 

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