Leaving

Photograph by Matilda Angus

“We live our lives, for ever taking leave.”

                                                              Rainer Maria Rilke

My father lived his life using his mind.

He did not have to look up mathematical formulas.

He carried it conveniently along in his head.

Life was a trigonometrical problem for which tan and cosine applied.

He could basically fix anything mechanical.

He has Alzheimer’s.

In the past few months there has been a rapid deterioration.

I stand in his room in the retirement home,

look at his mind through what I see.

There are shoes next to his CD player,

a light bulb in his socks drawer,

his TV remote is among his toiletries,

a few R20 notes are tucked in with his magnifying glass in its small case.

Almost everything electrical is stripped or taken apart,

the result of being fixed without having been broken.

Nothing adds up,

no pattern emerges from the data at hand,

few things work.

Lately he often talks to me about God.

Does the way he believes seem fine to me?

I tell him we don’t have to worry about being wrong in this case.

The magnitude of God’s love is such that he is present at any conclusion we might reach.

Actually he does not ask us to do the maths.

We can just let go.

I don't know if it helps him.

My father is on a bus pulling out of the terminal.

He sits small and lonely at the window asking me questions, mostly with his eyes.

I run along while I still can, shouting over the noise while being left behind.

Will he find his toothbrush in his bag I packed? He gets so flustered.

Is he dressed warmly? Lately he even forgets to wear socks.

Will he get off at the right stop?

I have never been to where he is going.

George