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Shadow
We’ve always been close, Dad and I. But not any more. Looking at him sat in an armchair in the corner of the nursing home, it’s hard to believe that this was once a lucid and intelligent young man. He’ll always be my dad, but it’ll never be the same. It’s like that young man left, and in his place, a shadow. The fog of memories sifting around constantly, flickering. Some brighter than others. It’s up to me to remember for us both now.
It wasn’t like this at first. He remembered most things, but now he barely even remembers his own name. I miss him so much.He was successful too. An artist — he used to paint the most beautiful pictures. Now he doesn’t even remember how to hold the brush right. He taught me to paint. I’m not bad at it, but I’ll never be as good as he was.
He used to travel the world, teaching poor people how to paint for free. He always believed that it was important that everyone learned to be cultured. He didn’t just see it as painting. He saw it as a whole process, from tiny pieces of the picture in someone’s head, to putting it down on paper, the whole image as a painting.
He used to be so wise. Not any more though. They even have to feed him, it’s gotten that far. This stupid, horrible disease. I don’t understand why it had to happen to him. You hear stories, and feel sorry for the people, but you never think that it’s…
