Stations

I have these recurrent dreams where I am chasing drug dealers on foot. At times I have a gun in my hand. Other times, I simply chase. My brain is saturated with episodes of an HBO series known as "The Wire". I cannot stop watching. I go to bed at crazy hours of the night because I simply cannot look away.

In between episodes of the aforementioned show, I've been caring for my father at his home. Things did not work out as previously planned during my stay here in Florida, with my mother landing in the hospital due to severely elevated blood pressure. Nonetheless, these past two weeks in Florida have been a godsend. I've spent time with my parents, my brother and nephews, milking as much time as possible from those encounters.

You see, the element of time is an unforgiving bastard. It steals moments from you when least expected. It speeds up when you least want it to. It drives the engine of despair to a grinding halt at times rendering you obsolete to anything but pain.

My dear father has improved his condition since the stroke, but we are far from declaring victory. His speech is still sluggish, his left arm and leg remain impaired. His mind muddled at times, unsure of the day of the week or the calendar date. Yet, his memories remain a spectacle to cherish.

During my Mother's stints at the hospital this week, Dad and I have shared coffee together. I've cooked for him, I've bathed him, I've tucked him in, I've cared for him. And in that sliver of time, that precious window, we have shared memories; of his childhood, his life being brought up in a small wooded house, surrounded by coffee, cows, fruits and all manners of trees. He talks about his legendary pub crawls in Puerto Rico with old friends and long gone family members.

With each sip of coffee, more conversations arise, around music, about long-lost muses, politics, tranquil waters and the art of making chicken soup. I cherish each sip. I watch him intently, this tower of a man who has built his life upon hard work, sacrifice and a relentless drive to better his condition for the sake of his own.

His eyes are dim at times, darting around as if trying to wake up from a bad dream. I weep inside. He praises my sandwiches and frequently mentions restaurants he wants me to visit during my stay. Of course, he wants to tag along.

It's hard to understand unless you have lived your life beside his; unless you have admired him up close and personal. It's heartbreaking. At other times, it angers me, to see him in his state. Yet, he remains ever wise, and ever quick to quip about me forgetting to dry his back or failing to get him a beer.

I haven't written in quite some time. Yet this week, my mind was filled with things I needed to jot down. Observations.

I sit close by his side, and we talk like father and son. I look towards the sky and nod appreciatively. I understand my station.