A short story from the end

I had never been so happy to see my dad.

It was three months into the shelter in place of 2020. The streets were still mostly empty. The world was mostly quiet. And my spontaneous, indoor visits to see my dad were a thing of the past. Sitting beside him, placing a hand on his arm, listening to music together—just being with him—all of it was gone.

Instead, I’d go jogging by his place, peeking through these floor-to-vaulted-ceiling windows for the chance at a glimpse of him. But always, no luck, not on the world’s side, and not on mine. Still, I’d go anyway.

Because it was what I had. With no contact of any kind—visual, written, spiritual—it started feeling like I didn’t have a dad anymore. Like he was already gone. I knew he wasn’t, but it felt like it.

Which pretty much sums up the last few years with my dad anyway. He’d changed so much, forgotten so much, although he managed to still be the simultaneously charming and aggravating dad I’ve always remembered. He wasn’t my dad anymore, but still, he kind of was.

And then one day, I went jogging by his place and one of the staff happened to be outside.

“Do you want to see your dad?”

I was taken aback. I didn’t know what to say. Uh, I mumbled, I don’t want to cause any trouble or be more of a hassle.

“Not at all. He’s already in the activity room. I can wheel him to the window for you.”

So I waited. I stood outside the floor-to-vaulted-ceiling windows. I felt jitters, my heartbeat, my breaths, a feeling I suddenly recognized as excitement, and of all things, anticipation. For my dad.

And he appeared.

My heart skipped. A feeling I have never, ever experienced for my dad. Because after three months, three months of knowing I had a dad but feeling like maybe I didn’t, I actually saw him. My dad was real again. Even if for a moment. Long enough for me to wave, to show him photos on my phone, to yell as loud as I could “How many cups of coffee did you drink today.”

To smile at him. And see him smile back at me.

Which is how I feel again now, days after laying him to rest next to my mom. It feels like it’s been some time since I’ve seen my dad. And in some ways, it’s been even longer than that. Because even if he saw my face as familiar, I think he started to forget who I was. He stopped saying my name. He started thinking I was somebody else.

And I know I will soon, once again, wake up and wonder if I do still have a dad. If maybe I should go out jogging to see if he’s still there. But I know he won’t be.

Still, maybe I’ll think to try again in another month. Or in a year. Or if I have to, another lifetime.

Because, Dad, even if you didn’t always remember me, I still remember you. I will remember the day I thought you were gone but it turns out you were not—the day my heart skipped a beat if that’s literally possible because I had never been so happy to see you again.

I will remember that. For the two of us.