My father was a victim of LBD. I wrote this after a visit with him.

I’ve come to visit dad.
He sits there in his chair.
My father, the man I’ve known all my life – who’s loved me, and made me the person I am.
There’s a vacant look in his eyes. He seems confused…
Memories are scattered on the floor around his feet…
I pick one up…
It’s my father laughing with the guys at the fire house (he loved it there).
Here’s another. I remember this one… he’s fishing for carp – me, sunnies. We’re eating sandwiches, sitting in contented silence, waiting for the fish to bite.
That one makes me smile.
I look through a few more…
Here he is, watching, with pride, as his young bride walks towards him down the aisle.
Here, he’s holding his newborn child for the first time, a tear of joy in his eye.
They used to mean so much to him, these memories, but there they are, scattered around him.
He can’t reach them… can’t pick them up.
I gather them together, and put them in my pocket.
I’ll save them for you, dad.
I’ll hold them for you…
We’ll share them later.

I added this after dad passed:

I picture you right now, in heaven… out on the water, rod in hand, sun shining warm on your face… the fish are biting. Save me a spot, right there, next to you, and one day we’ll be together, and share all those memories again.

Deb Isphording

Deborah Isphording

Mar 24, 2018