I made a quick trip over to visit my dad at lunch yesterday at the skilled nursing facility on Beretania Street where he’s been since the end of last year.

When I arrived, he was in bed asleep, but the cart bringing lunch was being wheeled down the hallway, so I woke him up.

He opened his eyes, confused, perhaps startled.

“What day?” he asked, hoarse, mouth dry. “What day?”

I told him. Wednesday.

“A week day.” Processing.

Yes.

He thought about it. “That’s why there’s a lot of activity around here?” Gesturing towards the door to the hall and the common room beyond where people tend to gather.

Yup. I suppose.

He looked around.

I slowly realized that he wasn’t sure who I was. Usually he will greet me by name, with a hearty welcome learned in his 60+ years as a salesman. “Hello, Ian, thanks for taking the time to stop by.” Use the name, be positive.

None of that yesterday. Long pauses. Silence. I think he was trying to connect my face with parts of his memory. It wasn’t clicking. At least not yesterday.

The food came. He exchanged pleasantries with the nursing assistant. Asked her how she had enjoyed her trip. So that meant he remembered that she had been gone. Good sign.

She took the cover off his plate. Unwrapped the fruit cup. Shook up the nutritional drink. Got out a straw and stuck it into the can. Moved the small glass of milk within easy reach. Set his fork and spoon alongside the plate. Went on her rounds.

Then he ate. Slowly. First the fruit cup, one small piece at a time. Cantaloupe. What looked like Honeydew melon. A grape or two. Then the fork moved over to the rice, and what might have been creamed tuna or something of that variety. One bite at a time, each movement of hand to mouth a delicate balancing act. But he managed. Peas were harder. Several were lost on each repetition.

Trying to help with an outstanding issue, I asked if he could recall whether there was an insurance policy on his boat. Said that I knew it might be hard to remember. I could see him searching for a memory, any memory, failing.

Finally he spoke. “I don’t do the paperwork,” he said. “I wouldn’t know.”

For several decades, this boat was a huge part of his life. I’m sad that he’s barely able to remember. What to say?

Finally, with conversation stalled, I said I would have to get back to work.

He asked: “What do you do?”

I told him I was working at the City Council for a little while longer.

He thought about it. “Do you know Ian?”

Ah. It gets complicated. How do I answer? All the advice we’ve gotten is to go with the mental flow.

“Of course,” I replied. “I see him all the time.”

True, in a way.

He was looking straight ahead into some other part of the world. He went on.

Talking through that long stare into space. “I don’t think he did as much with his politics as he could have. But he felt differently.”

I felt his regret. Weighed it.

I think he would have liked to see me run for office, become a public official, wield power. But somehow I’ve never wanted to walk on that side of the road. He obviously didn’t understand my choice, but had never said anything to me directly. Is it too late to talk about it?

He shoveled his fork under a few of the remaining peas, got it balanced and level, then shakily got hand to connect with mouth. Chewed.

I thanked him for the visit. Said I would be in touch. He waved a quick goodbye.

And I took the elevator downstairs to catch the bus back downtown.