The doctors refer to it as word salad.

“I can’t … and he needs to … ahhhh … The boy and …. the …. ah … the other boy … We can go … go … in the …. ahhhh … and then the … um … ahh … and …. ahhhh. The others are … well … I guess they know what they’re doing. And … and … and … that’s it. That’s … all I can say. I guess we’ll just see how it turns out.”

My father used to have a command of the English language few others could rival. When I was little, and young, he seemed like the smartest man on Earth. An incandescence I reveled in … when he had the time to shine it on me.

He was not always a patient man. He possessed a kind of ambivalence about his family and children in general. My dad preferred spending time with friends or, if at home, immersed in a book. When he did take my brother and I out, it was frequently in service of his two passions – socializing and drinking. The two went hand in hand. I didn’t care though. Any opportunity to spend time with dad was welcome. And besides, this is just what dads did.

But that’s not entirely accurate, is it? He took me canoeing a number of times. And what about teaching me how to fish? With a lit camel between his lips, he’d urge me to “Go on, put that hook in the worm.” I’d poke the worm and stare as it wriggled and recoiled. He’d sigh and take it from me and do the deed himself. Then hand the rod back to me. “Try to aim for that shady spot over there.” That’s where the fish liked to linger on hot summer days. Occasional wisdom. Perpetual opinions.

He fondness for his sons grew the older we got. As his friends began dying off or moving away, he’d frequently call to just to say “hi” and discuss current events or politics. We agreed on very little. Sometimes the debates grew heated, but I could sense his pride.

This man sitting across the table in the courtyard of the nursing home isn’t the same man. He stares at me and my mother and the masks we wear. We remind him of who he is and who we are. We try to explain we’re in the middle of a pandemic and only allowed one visit per week. He looks confused. “Go …. go? ” He points at the door.

The dog days of summer, a cicada is buzzzzzzzzzing outside and mom is frantic. “They’ve taken your father to the hospital!” The body remains strong, the mind erases the past. It’s a slow, steady deleting of function and inhibitions. He’s been “aggressive” with the nursing home staff again.

After work I hop in the car. A twenty minute drive. Six dollars for parking. Put on the blue paper mask and rub my hands with Purrell. Take the elevator to the up to seventh floor, turn right and then right again. This becomes my late summer routine.

While doctors experiment with medication and dosages my father whiles his days away in a hospital room. Some days he’s docile, staring at the TV or pouring decaf onto his mounds of chicken puree. Other days he’s hostile and angry. He pushes a nurse trying to prevent him from leaving his room. “No Bobby, you can not leave.” she explains patiently. She called him “Bobby.” He calls her “Nigger.” I can’t stop apologizing. I hate him. I pity him.

The next day he’s confined to a Posey Bed, zipper on the outside. I urge the nurses to let him out. He rips off his hospital gown and stands in the corners and ignores our pleas to get dressed. I can’t remember ever seeing my dad naked before.

The following day he hugs me. “My boy.” I hold his cold, thin hand as we roam up and down the hallways. “Which way do you want to go Dad?” He points and we slowly shuffle in that direction. Every door we come to he tries to open. He wants to escape. He wants to go home. I steer him away from the elevator.

After awhile, I slip away quietly without fanfare, retracing my steps, back to the elevator, back to the parking lot, back to the car. I call my mom. “How was he today!!?” She’s practically crying. She cries a lot these days.

I drive and we talk. And after we hang up, I just drive some more. How far away could I drive before anyone noticed I was missing?

Tomorrow, I will do it all over again.