Moments With Maxwell: The Silent Sip

"It's funny the way things turn out, isn't it?" my father muses as we sit at the kitchen table, drinking our late afternoon coffee.  The same thought had tossed around in my head so many times previously that day, rendering my response to a simple, "Yep", and a slight nod as affirmation.  We sit in silence for another good minute before Dad speaks again.  "I suppose everything happens for some reason or another," he offers while staring out the kitchen bay window.  One of my parents' dachshunds, Tank, is happily digging yet another hole in my brother's precious pitching mound in the backyard.  Both of us can't help but laugh, the dog being known for providing comic relief when needed...but the last observation hangs suspended in the air for lack of a better response on my part.  We fix our attention on little Tank, who is now running toward the back door, his entire face proudly sporting red mud from the tip of his nose to his floppy dachshund ears.

My father and I often communicate in this fashion, sometimes little is said in these moments, but much more is understood.  We are quite alike, us two...both reserved with our feelings and emotions.  Words are not always necessary for us to stay on the same page.  This is just one of those days.  We take a nearly synchronized slug of coffee. I am pleased to see he is still using his Father's Day present...a mug from a Cajun restaurant up in Ellijay, Georgia.  It doesn't take much to make people like us happy, just a cup of coffee and silence is never overrated, but rather essential in maintaining peace of mind at the end of a hard day.  I open my mouth to say something in a delayed reply, but Tank interrupts me by sticking his wet, muddy nose into the back of my knee, his way of telling me to pick him up.  Grabbing a napkin from the holder on top of the table, I first give his nose a good swipe before allowing him to make a determined leap into my lap. Dad smiles at the both of us, then diverts his attention back to the window. 

“He didn’t recognize me today, you know.” As he speaks in nearly a whisper, I see the that lines around my Daddy's eyes are more prevalent than ever, crinkling at the corner as he concentrates on his mental list of things-to-do for the next day.  He doesn’t want to show it, but I see the physical and emotional toll that caring for my grandfather has taken on his body. In this quiet moment, I see for the first time those little cracks showing through the façade my father works so hard to keep up--being that physically fit and mentally sharp person that I’ve always known—my superman. But today, I see him. He’s allowing a brief glimpse of a more vulnerable side within this safe space…and I want to hold onto it for as long as possible.

Breaking his gaze from the window, my father sets down his coffee to write something down on his ever present yellow steno pad.  Another to-do list has officially begun--no doubt it will soon include a visit with my grandfather.  A retired major of the Army and recently diagnosed with Alzheimer's, my grandfather has added a few extra stress lines to my father's worry-worn expression.  The question posed earlier referred to this particular situation...which I knew without my father ever having to say it. 

My father had come home after a busy and tiring day of running his own small business, on top of having several interruptions to his work--phone calls from my agitated grandfather followed up by a visit over to the nursing home to help calm down his father who had become restless due to sun downing. I notice Dad lingering a moment or two longer now at the kitchen table while finishing his coffee.  Now that I'm getting older, these un-rushed moments have become equally as important to me; especially the quiet ones like today, when Dad and I can enjoy the silence together, both appreciating the fact that we don't take silence for granted.  Smiling to myself, I breathe in the steam of my coffee...unfortunately pushing my nose so far into the cup that I feel my nostrils burning a bit.  "Shit!" Worried that he heard, I quickly look up at my father who is now smirking at me, trying to suppress a laugh. "You ain't right, you know that?" he says...an unusual phrase of affection my family uses quite often.  "I take after you, don't I?" quipping back in the usual banter.

We also share a very morbid sense of humor. "Promise me that you'll find a way to kill me before putting me into a nursing home," my Dad says.  "I can count on you to do the right thing."  "Okay, Dad," I reply, "How about I have you stuffed in a sitting position with a cup of coffee in your hand?  That way we can still drink coffee together when I've had a hard day at work."  At this last comment, Tank, who is almost asleep in my lap, now looks up at me, licking my nose without warning.  My nose instantly wrinkles. Dad laughs and says, “He and I both like your plan."  After that, we are silent once again, soaking in the last couple of minutes before my mother and brother would come through the front door, their voices ringing with the daily "guess who did whats" and "wait until you hear this.."  And we just sit…just me, my dad, and the dog...and I notice out of the corner of my eye that Dad has tossed the steno pad aside, a sign that those ever-present worries could wait...at least until the last cup is finished.