Dad

My father looked awful, frankly: pale and tired, dark circles under his eyes, ragged whiskers in place of his usual impeccably groomed beard.  He slumped sideways against the hospital bed, too weak to hold his body upright.  He may have known me, but his vague eyes didn’t give any hint of recognition. 

            The room tried to look like anything other than what it was.  Dark wood dressers leaned against a wall, the blinds were cracked to let narrow lines of sunshine in, a short armchair with too-thin cushions crouched in the corner, a nightstand holds a magazine and Dad’s smart phone.  The pretense failed to cover the reality of the adjustable bed frame tilted up to help Dad breathe or the blinking lights monitoring signs of life.  The overhead lights were too bright, the tv was mounted to the wall for easier viewing from the bed.  Antiseptic scented air blew too cold from the vents, and institutional food sat, untouched, on the bedside table.

            Dad’s voice was breathy and faint, but I knew he was still himself when he spoke.  “Will you do me a favor?  Bring my laptop, my Kindle, and my iPod.  I might need them.”  Yep.  If he was asking for his electronics, Dad was going to be just fine.