When I was about five years old, standing beneath a tall eucalyptus tree at our desert farm, I turned to my two younger sisters and said, “Someday we will be big and they will be little,” referring to our parents. Though I don’t recall the circumstance that evoked this declaration, I do remember my sisters’ nods as we marched off to play.
Last week, I visited my 95 year old father. For much of the time that I was there, he stared out the window to the fields he once tilled and talked about his early years. As I listened, I realized that dad had indeed become little with time, his body growing tired and his memories slipping from reach. He called me by name, but then thought I was his sister. And in that moment, my heart embraced his--as he struggled to make sense of it all.
Last week, I visited my 95 year old father. For much of the time that I was there, he stared out the window to the fields he once tilled and talked about his early years. As I listened, I realized that dad had indeed become little with time, his body growing tired and his memories slipping from reach. He called me by name, but then thought I was his sister. And in that moment, my heart embraced his--as he struggled to make sense of it all.
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