Dad had his struggles with marriage, having gone through 3 by the time he was 60. The stubborn determination required to go up against the racist culture of the deep south, the certainty needed to go to prison 6 times for the cause of nuclear disarmament, and the clarity one must assume when traveling to another country to send medical supplies to the enemy, well these attributes sometimes clashed with the humble compromises required when joining your life with another.

I too have plenty of moments of doubt about the rational of marriage despite being blessed with the companionship of a virtual Saint. This morning was one of those days I was finding compromise about as appealing as scrubbing the smell of goat off my muddied 20 something body with a bucket bath in India. It just wasn’t going to happen today. And so there I was driving to see dad, dreaming of life in a secluded cabin far from any need to negotiate away my apparently inherited stubbornness.

When I got to the Nursing home, dad was in bed, his usual place these days, snuggled under the sky blue down comforter I gave him in hopes it would add some warmth to the cold nights.  I sat down next to him and said, “Hi Ross” and he opened his eyes and said “oh. Hi!” I find it is always good, when entering, to go in easy, to show him immediately that I know him and love him.  “I brought you some of your old favorites. Fig Newtons, a banana and an icecream bar.” “OH!”  he exclaimed “I remember having those at your place” . How interesting that an icecream bar could serve as a visual to jog the memory of his visits to our home.

I decided this time, that I would talk to him just like he was my “Normal” father. I started to tell him about  things, about Pete’s time in the hospital, Jake’work on the school play, and visits with my brother and his kids. I talked with him about the movie Selma and thanked him again for his work in Mississippi and all the other places too.

As time was short this day, I didn’t hesitate to take dads hand. This gesture always seemed deeply comforting to us both. His eyes dropped down gazing at our clasped hands. On my left hand were two rings. An old ruby from my great aunt Norma, and next to it, my wedding band engraved with Sanskrit mantras. He waved his fingers over the rings and gently tapped the wedding band, “These are good for you.” He said looking up with a smile.

Then as if he had just this moment been ignited with some renewed energy he said “I am so PROUD of you!” “Really?  WHY??!!” and then back down to a whisper he offered, “because you are my….my child.”

Indeed, it had never occurred to me, that my dad could be proud of me, just for being. Just for being his somehow. Not because I was a special child or a good child. Not because I was a smart child or a brave child. Just because I was HIS CHILD.

“I worry about you dad” I said in spite of myself. “ I worry that I am not doing enough. I want you to be happy. I want to know that you are ok.” And he said “You have already done a lot,” He waved his arm gesturing around his room. Then patting the blue cover he said decidedly “ This is good. I am so grateful for all you have done.” There was nothing left to say.  “I love you dad” “I love you, my daughter.”

The tears having patiently waited their turn, let loose in the wintry air outside. Was I sad for how painfully sweet and lucid he was or for what had been lost? It was an overwhelming mixture of gratitude and despair.

On the drive home I pondered how a “brief” visit with dad could be so rich. The fluid borders of time had indeed showered us with her playful gifts.  How amazing that a tiny moment of humble simplicity could give way to such profound gratitude. Dad- Thank-YOU!