Today at Panera, I was hit with vertigo just after ordering my tomato soup. This memory almost knocked me off my feet. The room started to swirl, and I knew I had to go home and write about the last time I saw my father.
“Hi, I’m in town. I’d like to stop by. Can I bring you anything?”
“Sure, bring me some soup. From that place that has good soup… uhh… I can’t remember the name.”
“Panera?- sure, I’ll bring you soup from Panera.”
When I got to his house slightly after dark, in the late chilly fall of upstate NY, I found the front door ajar; he was sitting on a wooden chair in the middle of the ramshackle living room. The wood stove in the corner had a fire, and his dog, Jasmin, was beside him.
I wondered aimlessly how he lit that fire when he could hardly walk? Is it safely burning when he falls asleep every couple of minutes?
“Amber, it’s sure good to see you,” he said as I sat on the old burgundy couch. I looked around me. This house and this man had changed so much.
The man I remember from childhood commanded the room, had the kindest, soulful eyes, and could flawlessly read my emotions. He was generous to a fault and yet would disappear from my life for years at a time.
Ironically enough, the last time I saw him was a couple years earlier at Panera. He met my two-year-old son and nodded off throughout dinner.
This time, I came alone.
The house that, once so full of life, was now in a disarray of old furniture and dirty dishes. I stayed for a max of 30 minutes.
I watched this gentle giant share his Panera sandwich with his beloved dog and nod off while trying to eat soup himself. I tried to talk to him, but he didn’t seem to hear or see me.
I ate my soup, said goodbye, and carefully tried to close the door. It didn’t latch behind me. I closed the gate so Jasmin couldn’t get out and with that closed off my heart from hurting a little more.
Bob & me in 1979
Off the Cuff with A-Game 