The Sight of Her Alone

The day program driver is delivering Dad home. I watch from the picture window as they round the corner toward our driveway. The car is still rolling as Dad unfastens his safety belt, and he nearly has the door open too before the white minivan has reached a standstill. With the kind of fast-paced walk that makes most legs seem longer, he hurries toward the house and enters it with a searching smile. Sure, he is glad to see any of us. But he needs to see her. If she is sitting in her chair, as she often is, he will make his way there immediately, offer her his lips, let out a relieved laugh when she takes them. If she will not meet his kiss – because she is lost somewhere, because she doesn’t understand it – he will cradle her face lovingly, and the sight of her alone will calm this wound.